


Let's Do The Time Warp Again

by cynosure_phrases



Category: Carry On Series - Rainbow Rowell
Genre: Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood and Violence, Emotional Baggage, Eventual Happy Ending, Feelings Realization, First Kiss, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, One Shot, POV Alternating, POV Simon Snow, POV Tyrannus Basilton "Baz" Pitch, Slow Burn, Temporary Character Death, Time Loop
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-08
Updated: 2019-09-08
Packaged: 2020-11-02 00:29:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,762
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20560052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cynosure_phrases/pseuds/cynosure_phrases
Summary: It starts spilling out of me, uncontrollably and uncomfortably dizzing my sight as I stumble, hearing louder cries around me. I try, unsuccessfully, to find the Mage, only starting to walk towards him and having no luck.I feel the world churning, my blade raised and nothing coming into proper collision while students spill past me, building to the chaos as I try desperately to search and-There’s Baz, guarding over a cluster of people--no. Not just people, his family.-Eighth year has been the worst for Simon. No real battles, no adventure, no nothing. Now that there's barely any of it left, he's itching for something to redeem it. What he wasn't ready for, though, was the battle so regularly spoken of--the battle with The Families. And it goes wrong, so wrong.But what if it didn't? What if he had a second chance? (And a third chance. And a fourth chance. And a fifth...)





	Let's Do The Time Warp Again

**Author's Note:**

> quick acknowledgements: i'd like to thank lovelessinmanhattan and goodbyedanelion (on tumblr) for beta-ing this! i'm so sorry i only gave y'all like two days to do this. thank you. i love you.  
also, thank you charmingladies and vkelleyart for letting me yell at them about my plot irl at like 1 in the morning--i hope you both enjoy the mental image of me verbally going "asdklfjdskf" in place of simon's dialogue anytime he talks  
finally, thank you, the reader, for clicking on this. i'm sorry the tags are very concerning, but i'm glad you have trust in me  
NOTE: some of the scenes in this fic include what i'd refer to as "impermanent suicide", i.e. knowing they won't actually die when they do it. i'd like to be on the fair side of caution and warn about that, given it could be jarring for some people.

**SIMON**

I’m not quite sure if I’m going mad or not, but it really bloody feels like I am. Either that, or this has been the shittiest possible year at Watford since I’d started.

I really want to veer with the side of me being mental, but reality might not be as kind as that would be. Instead, I think I’ve actually got to fess up and say that my final year at Watford was, actually, bollocks. Nothing really interesting has happened, so far. Disappointingly.

Or, I guess, nothing that had an outcome worth really being happy about, over all.

Part of me wishes I could say this was the most likely year of them all--fight an army of goblins thirsty for my head, or the moats came to life and acted as semi-sentient blobs of snapping merewolves.

But there wasn’t anything exciting to come of this year. There was a dragon fight, that Baz got angry at me over for killing it (or  _ her _ , as he insisted, but I don’t know if he can really properly identify a dragon’s gender a glance). And the brief attack from the occasional enchanted nymph.

Besides that, a shit year.

Really shit from the start, honestly. Agatha broke it off, and despite Baz gradually lessening his harshness, he’s still been a prick since the year began. 

The overall disappointment probably just stems from the distance.

The fear that once this is all over, it’s done. This was my last year, and I feel like I’ve done nothing but rot away.

Three desks from Baz. Sitting next to Penny. A fair distance from Agatha.

A weird limo. Purgatory of expecting-- _ feeling _ more is coming, but then there’s nothing.

Holiday spent with Ebb. No need to leave campus.

Not even a mission from the Mage, which, overall, probably feels the most strange.

The sudden shift. The relocation of his usual wearabouts to being just his Battle Garage (which Baz likes to mock as “The Mage’s Big Boy Playhouse”).

At first, I’d figured the weird expectations that went along with the change was just something to be ignored, given how generally shit this year has gone. But, given the eerie stillness of Watford over the past few weeks, I’m starting to wonder if I’m onto something.

I wonder if something’s going on. Something I’m missing.

I wonder why Baz woke up at the same time I did.

Staring at my ceiling, I listen carefully as Baz stirs, the telltale sign of him shifting away from the light patch on his bed.

I don’t bother trying to make conversation--I know he’ll just say something bitter anyway, so I zip it and pull the cords to the blinds down on my way to the bathroom. He grumbles something unintelligible as a pass, and half of me wants to take that as an actual thanks. The other half of me figures that I shouldn’t get my hopes up on Baz ever being thankful.

He relaxes a bit into the space, turning towards his pillow as I lock myself into the bathroom, inhaling the lingering scent of the wash that Watford gives us from my shower last night. I don’t mind using it, given it gets the job done. Smells sterile.

Smells clean.

I exhale, staring at myself in the lengthy mirror as I flick the sink on and let it run hot.

My reflection isn’t quite what I always think of it to be.

I said it to Penny once, and she looked confused. Asked if I didn’t recognize myself, and I had to say no, because I know that’s me.

It just doesn’t always look the same.

In September, I look gaunt. Hollowed.

Usually, at this point in the semester, I’m always properly filled out, and everything looks about right.

Actually, no.

At this point in the semester, I’d usually be grabbing a pair of scissors and a razor, and start working on my hair.

The week before finals always was the mark. It sort of even starts to feel strange  _ not _ going to town on my head, but Penny seems glad that I haven’t gone off and took it all. She always says my head looks lumpy and uneven with it all gone.

I tell her it’s my fashion statement.

Baz just gives me a weird look whenever I do it.

Never really wrapped my brain around that one.

I exhale, brushing my teeth then splashing my face and scrubbing some soap over it, wiping away the sleep and trying to wake myself enough to deal with this week.

And then the next.

And then it’s over.

Eight years, and somehow, I’m starting to feel like I’m leaving in worse conditions than I came in.

By the time I step out, Baz has already drawn himself up went about taking his clothes out, one by one, and laying them flatly over his arm.

He sends a glance over his shoulder, lip further curling up. I think, for a second, he’ll try an insult, but he just pushes past me the moment my foot crosses the threshold. At first, I turn to say something, but he’s already locking himself inside before I can get a word out.

Tosser.

I don’t see him again until we’re downstairs and I’m halfway through a plate of scrambled eggs and sausage, looking up to see him turn up his nose while he walks past.

Penny doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t even look up, too engrossed in her book (it’s some class textbook--I think she’s one of the only students making herself study for Eighth Year finals). Doesn’t matter, either way, she wouldn’t want to hear me talk about Baz.

Not that he’s on my mind--only to a healthy extent, and as a healthy reaction.

Everyone thinks about people they’re forced to be around. It’s natural.

I look over at him, settling down with his tray in hand as he looks at me from across the table.

It’s natural.

I stuff a bite of sausage into my mouth, turning away and chewing as I try to mentally run through the day at hand.

Which, luckily for me, turns out to be an easier day than I’d imagined.

Classes are a bit boring now, especially since nobody except for maybe Baz, Penny, and a few other random students care about them. The teachers ramble over material they’d went over months back, letting me drift my attention out the open windows, watching storm clouds start to build.

They twist my insides a bit, giving that strange vibe you get when you know something’s off, but you can’t really pinpoint it.

I suck in a breath, and force my attention back into the classroom.

Who knows, maybe it’ll just knock the power out for a few minutes.

Although the progressive building of them throughout the day does nothing but make me start to feel ill--my magic bubbling nervously to the surface, and by the last class of the day, some classmates are coughing enough that Mr. Minotaur makes a pointed look as we’re settling in.

“Contain it, Simon,” he tuts, turning his back as the blush creeps up my neck and over my cheeks.

I quickly let myself drift off again, noticing Baz is staring out the window, too.

Which, at first, I think is odd, given Baz is rarely the one to daydream (he’s even gotten on my case about it, a few times), But then it turns to a bit of that bubbling worry, given his eyebrows draw into a confused squint, eyes giving something away, but nothing quite readable.

I try to focus on the sky for a moment, ready for something evil to swarm in and attack us, bringing the thrill back to life, but what actually comes isn’t what I’m expecting.

It doesn’t even come out as creaturely.

The first and only thing I hear before I slam myself out of my seat is human screaming, down the hill and at the edge of the Courtyard.

Baz hears it too, pushing his seat back in an ear-piercing scratch as the rest of the class starts to scramble and speak.

I don’t even let the professor stop me, turning away and starting to sprint out the doorway while summoning the sword.

Whatever this is, it’s bound to be big.

I shouldn’t be smiling as I run down the hallway, the budding adrenalin starting to spread through my limbs and tingle at my fingertips and toes.

I shouldn’t be as excited, but Merlin, I’m ready for a good fight.

Bursting out onto the green, I’m ready for something interesting. Silent serpents, or an invisible beast. Something else wrecking the springtime, manicured grass and letting me relive my heydays of Watford once again.

Except, that isn’t what what I find instead.

I screech to a halt, throat catching as I look over the cries of the crowd in front of me.

Fucking hell, this is… this is...

_ The _ bloody fucking battle. The one that I, and most of the rest of us, was expecting to not even happen, after a certain point. Chaotic shouting, kicking clouds of debris and miscalculated spells running amuck as cries echo through the crowd.

I can’t focus. It’s too much. They’re already inching closer.

The old families are clashing with The Mage’s Men, armed and barring them, going to take on the few stronger ones.

Spells wizz past, setting the energy rifts ablaze with radiating pulses of magick through the air.

I nearly choke on it, going clouded with my own power.

It starts spilling out of me, uncontrollably and uncomfortably dizzing my sights as I stumble, hearing louder cries around me. I try, unsuccessfully, to find the Mage, only starting to walk towards him and having no luck.

I feel the world churning, my blade raised and nothing coming into proper collision while students spill past me, building to the chaos as I try desperately to search and--

There’s Baz, guarding over a cluster of people--no. Not just people, his family. His father, I’m sure, and a woman I don’t recognize, but imagine it’s probably his stepmother. There’s children, too. Sobbing, tiny children, clutched to chests and only dirtied by the commotion.

I wonder, briefly, why anyone would bring their  _ children _ to a battle, but it’s a fleeting thought.

The sight of bared teeth and a raised wand sends me into a panic. A full, sprinting, blind panic, until I’m blocked from running further.

He meets me halfway, it seems.

At least, my sword meets him halfway between us, sinking deeper into his chest as my vision blurs and turns, trying to catch a proper sight, but all my senses are failing me. Am I snarling? Am I frowning? I don’t even know. I don’t know what I’m doing, I don’t know what I’m doing,  _ I don’t know what I’m doing-- _

A hand reaches up, shocking me from the cloud and snapping me into reality, if only briefly.

It’s all clear at once. Like a haze lifted, and snapped me back into reality (a reality where I’ve got  _ Baz _ dying in my arms).

I gasp for air, eyes going wide and body snapping into a panic as I start to draw the sword back.  _ Nonononono... _

“Simon…” He murmurs. His mouth sounds stuffed--overly full. Ridiculously, achingly full, while the drip of his blood trickles down my sword and onto my fingertips. I gasp, eyes washing over him furiously. There has to be some way to undo this.

His hand trails, cold and soft, against my cheek as my sword goes sliding back, and he groans.

I stop, gasping for air. “B-Baz--”

“Shh,” he manages. He’s choked. Sputtering blood, and his grey eyes fade more with the world around me.

He’s gone, leaving me in a shuddering wave of disbelief, as I try to come to grips with the facts of what I’ve done.

_ I shouldn’t have done this. I wish I hadn’t... _

I’m buzzing--hands glowing and brain fully going fuzzy. I feel like an atomic bomb, and I’m whizzing through the sky after just being dropped.

He goes limp, and I explode.

\--

**BAZ**

_ What the fuck was that? _

My hands fly out, grabbing at my bedsheets as I pant myself awake, heart fluttering, the little blood in my body at a million miles a minute.

Desperately, I look about the space around me, trying to figure out if I’m in some shitty afterlife, but I find that it’s just my room--our room. I’m in  _ our  _ Watford room.

And Snow is too, looking a similar, disheveled state.

No.

_ No. _

We did  _ not _ just have the same nightmare. Coincidence of night terrors, perhaps, but not  _ that _ . Not what just happened.

“Fucking hell,” I hear him grumble, catching the sight of his hands raking through his hair before promptly turning away.

Merlin and  _ fucking _ Morgana. I haven’t had that dream in ages. And never quite as vividly, either. 

Sure, I’ve had the “Snow sends me to some eternal damnation” dream--puncture the chest, swipe of the blade, yada yada. But they usually don’t run through a whole school day. And I usually kiss him at the end (sometimes more, but I don’t really want to think about the wet dreams that even I disapprove of and I’m the one imaging them up).

They were never quite like that.

Never felt the blood pour from me. Spill onto his hands, watch his skin streak with trails of it.

Never had him start to go off in my hands.

I close my eyes, breath catching as I hear him grumble something else, coupled with the sharp creeks of his wooden bedframe and the flat, heavy thunks of his feet onto our floorboards.

He’s always had such a strong step.

I exhale, eyes falling shut as I hear the water flick on, followed by the sound of him capping his toothpaste.

No. Whatever the fuck  _ that _ battle was wasn’t just a normal nightmare.

It was just strange.

Pushing myself off, I brush back my hair and try to busy myself with other thoughts. The daily plan--the usual line of action.

Grab my bag, set up my books. Sharpen this pencil, check the ink of this pen. Shift through my clothes, determined by how hot it’ll be, and plan accordingly (it doesn’t quite seem like a spare jumper day).

I peer outside briefly.

It looks like it might rain.

Just like the dream.

I shake my head and dismiss it, finishing gathering my clothes as Snow pushes out, half stumbling into the room as the tips of his hair drip. He’s always been messy, even when washing his face.

I don’t bother making a quip, not feeling the effort needed, and push past him. It’s hard to ignore the strange glance he gives me, but I shut the door before I can properly address it.

It’s almost finals week. We don’t have time for  _ strange _ .

It slips my mind as I start up the shower, hearing him leave as I’m stepping in.

I take my time, arriving late enough that he’s already most of the way through his plate as I walk past. What does take me a second, though, is the double take I do on his breakfast.

Same as the dream.

Same placement of people, same book in Bunce’s hand, same dumb knit-faced look across Snow’s face.

Same everything.

It’s the worst oncoming wave of deja vu, and I can’t quite shake it.

I stand over the serving line, a churning in my stomach as I look over it. All too similar. All too real.

To accomodate, I get half the portion I did in my dream and take a seat, trying to wrap my mind around it.

Never quite thought I’d be in the position of an Oracle. Never quite thought we’d have a need for one again, after the history of the last one, but the gut-wrenching, mind-spinning realisation that I may be living the day my dream set out for me starts settling into my skin.

I can’t even get a bite down, practically gagging the moment it touches my tongue.

Niall gives me a strange look, while Dev just pokes at his muffin.

My fork settles down with a clank, head turning away quickly. The room is still spinning. I can’t make it stop. “Not hungry,” I mumble, yanking out a book and trying desperately to occupy myself.

I just end up scanning over pointless pages until we’re shooed off to classes, herding into tight rooms with newly installed air conditioners (The  _ Mage _ thought it was a waste of magick to let us spell the rooms cool).

It’s only a matter of minutes until it dawns on me that this is, in fact, the same exact class as my dream the day before.

As is the next class (which feels increasingly boring, given it’s Latin and I’ve studied myself up for far enough prior to even attending Watford).

At lunch, I catch Snow’s eyes, noticing the rising panic as we steadily hold gazes.

It’s intense. It makes my skin prickle in ways beyond what it usually does.

It isn’t attraction this time--it’s fear.

I can’t help myself. I gulp and turn away, not even having a hint of smugness in this situation. This isn’t one of our petty quarrels. It isn’t  _ normal. _ This feels like the end of our worlds.

He keeps staring as I walk past, the burning hold of it nearly making me stop to chat ( _ nearly _ ; like I’m insane). I don’t make idle conversation, though, going to sit at my usual spot without even the thought of a sandwich.

I’m not hungry. Desperately so.

I don’t even touch a plate, trying to briskly push past the crowd of unexpecting, seemingly unphased students as Snow scrambles to follow after me.

“Baz!” I hear, called a few bodies back. I ignore it, trying to walk faster.

He catches up, though. Damn his energy.

“Baz, I--what--wait--are you--”

I pull myself to an abrupt stop, watching him scramble ahead then fall back into place as he stares at me.

I feel myself stare back, jaw setting as my shoulders square off. “I have no idea what you’re on about, Snow.”

“I--the  _ dream _ ,” he says quietly. “You had it too, right?”

“I don’t just knock out, Snow. Of course I dream.”

His face flickers from frustration to disgust, stepping backward. I think about catching him. “I… fuck you, now’s not the time for being a prick. I know you had it too.”

“Why would you say that?”

I raise a brow as his chin juts up, lips twitching. “You’re nervous.”

I nearly drop my fucking books. “No, I’m not.” I don’t know why I’m stalling. I don’t know what I’m really stalling  _ for _ , I just know that I am. 

Maybe I just don’t want the  _ thing _ to happen. I don’t want to die today. Not with finals so close--what’s the point of getting right to graduation, then just calling it quits right  _ before _ getting your diploma?

Why couldn’t this wait for another three weeks?

Snow’s head drops, shoulders slumping as he scans me. “Merlin, Baz, won’t you just admit it? Then maybe we can talk about it--”

“Oh, brilliant. We talk about you stabbing me, hm? Pleasant, friendly conversation. Like we always have.” My face drops deeper into a scowl as I turn on my heel, starting to march off.

Of course, he follows me.

“I didn’t--no, I--”

“Don’t say a word, Snow,” I growl, not even bothering to turn my head. He tries to say something back, but I don’t even bother giving him the chance.

If it was prophetic, then he’ll just do it again.

I just don’t want it to hurt more than it has to.

I exhale and try,  _ try _ to focus on my few classes (dull, uneventful, anxiety inducing, given the possible following events). I end up staring out the window, watching the clouds swirl and rush past as my attention rides on the lack of clashing.

It isn’t until my last class that my hands start shaking.

It starts at my fingertips--a clumsy, unsure tremble, running up into my hands and trickling up to my heart. I feel it flutter within my chest, uneasiness bearing down onto me.

Snow comes in reeking of firepits and charred buildings.

I force myself to not look at him.

He tries, at first, to grab my attention, again with his staring, but I force myself off, glaring out the window.

It nearly feels  _ right _ when I hear it first--far before anyone else.

Arguing. Chatter. The softened wails of a child--then it hits, The sky-piercing scream.

The chaos floods again, just like last time.

And Snow’s the first from the chair, and out the door.

I filter into the rest of the crowd, feeling the ache in my heart starting to rise.

It’s a somber march for me--a focusing one for everyone else.

And I, out of everyone, run right into battle, at a disregard to the chaos with only one thing and one thing on my mind. Find my family, and protect them.

Which isn’t hard, given they’re clustered near the front--Fiona on one side, my Father on the other, with Daphne and my step-siblings clustered around the center.

I’m pulling my wand before anything else, sprinting across the lawn and falling into place. Fiona gives me the same look as my dream (prophecy). Sad. Scared.

Ashamed of where we are. Frightened that she has to protect the family her sister almost had.

I gulp back the shame, and raise my wand with her.

I don’t know what going on. It’s absolutely mad--people everywhere trying to attack. Men in those ridiculous get-ups The Mage puts his entourage in fighting through families. Stunning children, taking down adults.

And, of course, Snow.

Who doesn’t seem to be charging this time, but rather standing, looking rather confused with his sword at his side.

Give it to him to be useless at a time like this.

I try to snarl at him, his sword raising impulsively before his eyes grow.

The last thing I hear is  _ “Baz!” _ before it all cuts out again.

\--

**SIMON**

I wake up in a sweat.

A mad, shaking sweat, throwing my eyes about the room while bolting upright.

Grasping at my hair, my arms, my chest, my cross--they’re all there.

I’m here. Well, not where I was right then, but now I’m here again. I’m back in our room, and Baz is in his bed, shaken, but awake.

Shakily, I throw aside my covers while hauling myself to the bedside. “Now do you believe me?” I manage, hands trembling as they grip onto my sheets.

He just stares at me like a madman, eyes blown wide and mouth looking strange--looking full. At first he’s stiff as a board, before turning over and curling up to his pillow. “I can’t  _ fucking _ believe this,” he grumbles, keeping pressed away as I exhale.

I smooth over my sheets, feeling nerves of the battle ease off my shoulders.

After looking at my clock, I realise we don’t really have much to relax on. It’s Monday, again.

“Baz…”

“Let me  _ think _ ,” he snaps, hauling the duvet over his head briefly.

I don’t even let him work on a new insult, giving him my best “I bloody hate you” sort-of grunt before trudging off to the bathroom.

He’s sitting up by the time I step back in, wiping my hands on my trackies as he turns away entirely.

It doesn’t really deter me. “So what do you think this it?”

He stares at his hands, thumbnail running across one of his posh, treated cuticles. “Pre-finals jitters?” He offers coldly. “The Crucible’s test of mental fate--which nightmare will make us go mental and kill each other before we have the chance to gradua--”

“It isn’t funny,” I huff, stomping across the room to grab my uniform.

“Do I seem like I’m laughing to you, Snow?”

I turn to him, eyes leveling. “Not on the outside, no.”

“Oh, but of course, I’m internally  _ dying _ with laughter.” He sounds so bloody flat. It makes me feel sick.

“Then what do you propose we do?”

His eyes run over me, analyzing every little bit of me before he sighs and pushes himself up. “Well, something’s going on here,  _ obviously. _ Third time could be the charm in this scenario, and we’re both out for good. Or…”

“Or?”

He stares down at me, eyes heavy, but mouth rod-straight. “Or,” he continues. “Someone fucked with the natural order of time.”

I freeze a bit, the idea catching my throat.

For some reason, my body won’t let it swallow. “What do we do today, then?”

I watch as he turns back around, heading into the bathroom and standing at the doorway as we finish. “Hope we’re not dead before tomorrow morning.”

With that, he locks himself in, leaving me hopeful that I don’t have another shitty reliving of my morning.

Which, of course, I do. Down to the fly that whizzes past my ear as I’m walking to lunch. Penny watches me catch it, a bit freaked out as I do.

“Morgana, nobody told me you’re bloody fucking Bruce Lee.”

“I’m not,” I grumble, shaking my hand as the fly’s body drops to the ground. “Lucky shot.”

She looks at me strange, but doesn’t say a word back.

I don’t have the energy to hold a conversation, anyway.

I use the rest of my disposable effort in telling Penny I’ll be right in before dragging down Baz, pushing him into the empty nearby corridor. He’s off looking all cocky as I shove him in. “Crowley, Snow, starting relationship rumours now?”

“Shut up,” I growl. “Just… shut  _ up _ . I’m not in the mood.”

I watch as his lips twist, nose raising up. We stare for a couple moments of stretched silence before he gives in, sighing and dropping the arms from his sides. “What is it? What do you want?”

“I want to figure this out--are you feeling the weird… fuck… what’s it called--”

“Deja vu?”

“Deja vu,” I nod, swallowing back the rising panic. “For two days in a row now? Is this  _ happening _ ?”

He stops, dragging his eyes over me before raising an arm to touch my shoulder. It shocks me, especially given how bored his face looks, at just a tender movement, but then he pinches me and the moment disappears.

“Ow--fuck! What the fuck?!”

“Well, you’re not dreaming, that’s for sure,” he monotones, dusting his palms together in the most unsettling fashion. I stop myself from scoffing, putting more distance between us.

Glaring up, I think over just stomping off, but that train leaves the moment I realise that that’ll leave us with absolutely nothing accomplished. “Well… what do we do when it comes time for… y’know…”

“You to murder me again?”

It hits me like a bloody punch to the gut.

He actually looks hurt.

“No.” I avoid it. “No--we walk in together this time. Maybe skip class? Try to scope out the courtyard before hand?”

He cock a brow. “Won’t that be suspicious?” 

“Does that matter?”

“I don’t know if you’ve ever participated in an ambush attack, Snow--”

“Ahah! It was an attack from the Old Families?! Planned?”

His face twists from frustration to disgust, scoffing down at me as he leans against the wall. “The last thing the Families  _ ever _ want to do is ruin Watford. I think your precious  _ Mage _ has something to do with--”

“Don’t,” I warn sharply, watching his shoulders drop with a sigh. His head turns away, frown monstrously tight. I groan, raking a hand through my hair and tugging up. “Fuck. Shit. This isn’t solving  _ anything _ …”

He stays uncharacteristically silent, letting me catch him stand unguarded in front of me, working over a plan.

I can tell he’s tired. I can feel it.

“Why don’t we leave at the same time, then?” he offers, definitely teetering on exhausted. “We both see what happens, then. From the same point.”

Standing back for a moment, I take him in.

The hunch in his back, the loose hanging of his hair (it looks like he forgot product today). Dull eyes. Paler than usual.

I close my eyes, and all I can see is something I’ve been trying to push back for days.

Trickling blood, his fingertips against my skin. His last breath.  _ “Simon…” _

“Okay,” I say, a bit gruffer than intended.

When I open my eyes to meet him, it’s as if he’s snapped back into his usual stance, ready to shove me down then just keep walking. “Fine. Yes. Good.” He adjusts his collar, letting out a sigh. “We’ll leave from class, then.”

I watch his chest, thinking of the spot I’d jabbed my sword into. I feel sick all over again.

“Yeah. Class.”

He nods, walking off sharply and leaving me in silence.

I manage to make it to lunch, but I skip everything else until class, just wandering down halls instead. Nobody really stops me--nobody ever stops me. Nobody thinks it’s  _ worth _ stopping me, unless it’s for mindless friendly chat, because everyone always figures I’ve got some weird Mage assignment or other to get to.

Which gives me time to think--something I’d rather not be doing.

I wish I could stop this. I wish I could wash his blood off my hands.

I stare at my knuckles, etching every crack his blood seeped into. Every crevice, leaking lines. Dipping. Dripping. Soaking both of our clothes as he let go, and… and…

I stumble, catching myself on a windowsill and sitting with a thunk.

I smell my magic--everyone probably smells my magic. It’s swirling and heavy, filling the room and making me feel dizzied and sick. I gasp for air, letting it come back to me in pounding waves as I settle and ground myself.

He’s alive, the tosser. I just saw him barely an hour and a half ago.

So I don’t know why his death still haunts me.

I squeeze my eyes shut, rubbing my temples as letting myself push back every thought--every problem--until it’s time to stumble back to class once again.

I nearly crash into Baz on the way there, bumping his shoulder as we step in. He gives me a distasteful look, and I just fucking take it.

He has every right to hate me.

We take our seats, and I can’t help but notice his nerves flairing. Tapping foot, drumming fingers. 

The haunting, brief moment I catch his hand swiping over the very spot I’d stabbed him in.

I hold myself from gagging, breath catching audibly.

He sends a look my way, but I turn my head as quickly as possible. He doesn’t need to know.

He doesn’t need to know anything.

He doesn’t need to know that I’m staring at him, waiting all class until the fateful scream, sending me flying out of my seat.

He gives me a concerned glance, letting the room spill out around us as we stand and lag behind. Falling into the crowd, letting the flow of the students push us forwards.

He sends me a look, and I impulsively reach out, grabbing his sleeve and keeping him within arm distance.

He stiffens a bit, but allows it, wordlessly marching along with me.

Once we hit the clearing, the chaos of the scene has already unravelled. I feel him flinch beside me, impulsively sending my hand properly around his arm as we hold ourselves off. “Merlin…” I breathe.

It grows cloudier, but my magic stays at bay this time--it sparks at Baz’s arm, and I nearly let go in fears of setting him on fire, but he doesn’t budge.

He’s locked onto people in the crowd. The ones who I’ve noticed that he stands by. “Are those…”

“That’s my family.” He sounds choked.

I try to stare at them, but the surrounding chaos makes it harder for us to focus on anything but the firing of spells and the crying, the screaming.

I can’t breathe.

“We should leave,” I impulsively gasp.

He stares at me, bewildered as I tug at his sleeve.

“Please Baz,” I beg, “let’s go. I can’t do this--not again.”

“I thought you were the warrior.”

I look at him, and see the flicker of his death hit again. I’m sick. “I can’t--I’m not. We need… We need…”

I see spells spiral around us, trying to hit something. Louder screams, voices some familiar, some not, as I try to tug him away.

He doesn’t budge, back to the crowd as he stares.

A flash of the blood.

His grey eyes, shifting back and forth between draining and alive. Here. In front of me.

“Baz,” I whine, spells whizzing closer and closer until the sharp sting of a curse pierces through us, knocking me out the moment I feel the pain.

\--

**BAZ**

I shock awake, gasping as I clutch at my chest.

It still feels fiery and hot--like my chest had been blown through and melted right off.

The room is light again. Not a scratch on it, and neither have we.

I try to look at Snow, hoping for an answer of what had just happened, but he’s already hitting the floor and sprinting to the bathroom. He doesn’t even bother shutting the door, letting the sound of his retching fill our room as I grasp onto my own mouth in protest.

I have to close my eyes, trying to focus on anything but the sound of his vomiting.

When he finally steps back out, he’s nearly as ghastly pale as I am.

“I need…,” he says shakily. “I need to see The Mage…”

_ Disappointed. Not surprised. _

“What? To help him plan?”

He shoots daggers towards me. “To see what’s going on.”

**SIMON**

He’s staring at me like I’m mad, and I can’t really disagree with that one.

“Snow,” he threatens, but I cut him as quickly as I can.

“We always have tomorrow?” It doesn’t really snap the tension, making him look more pissed off than ever.

“What do you plan  _ I _ do then?”

“Research? I dunno. You’ve got all those books you can look at.”

He snorts, pouting further. “Fine,” he snaps, pulling himself out of bed before slamming himself into the bathroom.

I don’t bother waiting for any further conversation--I change into my uniform and leave my bags, making a bee-line for The Mage’s shed.

I don’t bother knocking, knowing nobody can really stop me (plus there’s security cameras all around it, so if they were going to lock me out, they would’ve done it before I even touched the door handle).

It’s relatively empty inside, which is a bit odd. There’s a few of his men that I recognize, and the Mage is at the head of his round table. (I think he actually calls it that, his “round table”. Which I don’t even bring up with Baz, because I know he’ll have some sort of remark about it.)

As I’m stepping in, I hear a hush fall, then the Mage waves off who he’s speaking to to wave me further in. “Simon. Lovely for you to join.” The door thumps closed behind me.

I try to really take in everything around me, but it feels uncharacteristically clean. Like he’s tidying up something that shouldn’t be seen on accident.

Something someone like me would see.

I’m sure it has to do with The Humdrum.

I’m sure.

My head spins as I try to pinpoint myself on something in the room, but the movement’s unfairly dizzying. “Yes,” I start, stumbling over thin air before holding onto one of the chairs. “Good morning, sir.”

His head lifts, brows coming together. “Merlin, is it the morning already?”

I frown. “Yessir, it’s just past eight now.”

His hand comes up, scratching his beard as he drags out his phone and squints down at it. “Right,” he mumbles, starting to turn away as I plop myself into a seat.

I regret skipping breakfast, given I probably should eat anyway, but I feel sick from these past few days. Nothing’s making sense, and it’s starting to seem like it still won’t anytime soon.

“Sir?” I start, toying at my necktie.

The Mage spins around, blinking and simply waiting for me to speak.

“I… was wondering what the plans of the day were?”

He stops, face completely unreadable for the long moment we’re staring at one another before his eyes scan the room around us, then drop to his mobile. “Don’t you have classes today?”

“Studies aren’t exactly on my list of priorities, sir.”

His brows raise briefly, then drop back down, the harsh, white-ish blue of his screen filling his face.

Never really realised how shit the lighting is in here. I think he tries to make it seem like a battle strategy bunker for the shits and giggles aesthetic of it. Never fully got the appeal of it, but then again, it’s not exactly my place to say anything. All he ever really tells me my place is when he tells me to swing my sword, and hope it sticks right. Which, probably, is what makes this whole battle reliving really quite shit.

He finally settles it back down, nodding to one of his men before sitting. “Take a seat, Simon.”

I do so, fiddling with my hands as he leans over the table.

Staying back, I watch as he exhales, lips pulled tight in thought before he speaks again. “The Old Families are planning an attack--”  _ I fucking knew it _ “--and we’re staying stationed and ready once it’s time to go. Now, we don’t want any panic outside, do we?”

I shake my head slowly, squinting.  _ What the hell does he mean panic? Of course there’ll be panic. _ “No sir…”

“Right,” he says sternly, “then I think it’d be best for it not to be known, don’t you agree?” I don’t feel myself nod before he keeps going. “Right. Good. Then it’s settled; you’ll stay in here until they arrive, and you’ll join us once it’s time.”

I don’t have a second to protest, feeling a deep twisting in my gut as he waves his hand.

“That’s all. Go practise your weapons work outside, then. Don’t want to be dull for later.”

My jaw falls open, the sinking feeling pulling lower and lower as my body betrays my wishes. It’s as if the Mage’s snap gets me to follow, trudging outside and starting to practise hacking at a tree. As if I don’t have better things to do--like run to Baz and accuse him,  _ his family _ , of doing this. That if I just yell at him hard enough, maybe it’ll snap both of us out of  _ all _ of this, and we’ll figure out what to do then, rather than letting this morbid, viciously dark cycle continue.

My breath sticks in my throat as I stare at the well-worn tree in front of me.

Something isn’t settling right. The faces of the families. The  _ children _ . Who brings children to a battle? Who lets children into a battle? In fact, it barely even looked like some of them were ready. It seemed like there was scattered attires, revolving around loungewear and some pajamas. 

If I hadn’t heard better, I’d imagine they’re not out here for this reason.

I gulp, spinning around and finding a fresh tree to slam against, starting to feel the prickle in my eyes as I slash.

Bloody  _ fucking _ battle.

Bloody  _ fucking _ Baz.

Blood  _ fucking _ Watford.

I squeeze my eyes shut, feeling the welled up aggression spilling over as I start slamming my sword against the sides of the wood, feeling the splinters jut off and fly past me--fly all around. Flutter about, falling like heavy snow onto my clothes and hair, leaving me panting and desperate for  _ something _ that feels  _ right _ .

I search around, looking about the woods, and nothing’s clicking.

Nothing’s clicked for a while.

Nothing but the tug of Baz’s arm yesterday. The grounding knowledge that he wasn’t at the battle to fight me.

I choke on another sob, hand flying over my mouth as I desperately look about.

_ He wasn’t trying to kill me. He wasn’t trying to kill me. He was never trying to kill me. He would’ve killed me by now. He wasn’t trying to kill me. _

_ This is wrong. This is wrong. He should be killing me. He should be sinking those fangs deep into my neck, and taking away this life that tried to take his. _

_ He should be trying to kill me. _

I stumble back, eventually crumbling below a tree, and falling into myself.

I’m awoken by a hand on my shoulder.

I don’t know how long I’ve been out. I’m disoriented. I’m distraught.

Searching around, my eyes land on The Mage, looking down distastefully. “They’re here. Come along.”

I don’t feel myself get up.

I feel heavy. Unaware.

Behind some mask--some shield. Blindly following The Mage, my sword in hand as my eyes search the grounds for a familiar face. One I’d disappeared from.

I don’t know what I owe him. An apology, maybe. A confused string of questions. A punch in the face. All at once, if I’m lucky. 

I owe him not to die today--that’s what I owe.

I hear voices, but I can’t make them out. They jumble, deep and heavy, surround as a cloud around my head as I stumble and search out the familiar once, until the first clear voice cuts through.

“Go on, Simon,” The Mage snaps, the sinking dread going to hit the ground. Atomic bomb exploding. “Go off.”

And I do.

\--

**BAZ**

I wake up to Snow crying.

Fat, heavy tears rushing down his nearly blank face.

The moment I get a look at him--a  _ real _ look at him--he turns away. Throws the blanket to block my line of sight while trembling like a puppy.

At first, I don’t know what to do. I try to listen, but he’s near silent, apart from the occasional sniffle he lets out into the room. Against my better will, I don’t go to comfort him. I know, for the sake of both of us, I shouldn’t try to start anything right now. Especially after what I’d just seen him do.

Go nuclear.

Detonate on the Mage’s whim.

It shook the ground, rattling it below our feet as some of the weaker mages shook from the residual energy, then crumbled like shattered statues. It felt like a blast zone, and I was shocked to have survived that go. That was, until one of his men found me trying to run for my family. I didn’t survive that blow to the chest.

I’m still out of breath. Compressed. Unspokenly aching, and trying further to suppress it in hopes of being the strong one today.

If Simon Snow can find the energy to be brave every other day of the week, I suppose it’s my job to take over for now. Or, at least, until I die again.

And again.

“Simon…”

“I’m sorry,” he chokes out, ringing loud and clear over our room. “I’m so sorry, Baz. I don’t… what is  _ happening _ …”

“I wish I knew.” I say it into my lap, shifting upright and swallowing any residual pride left.  _ Crowley… _ “It’s okay, Simon.”

He sounds hurt again, struggling out a proper word. Stuttering off in little beginnings but never quite finishing a thought. It lands, eventually. “I don’t--I don’t kn… I don’t know what to do, an-anymore,” he gasps. “I’m  _ scared _ , Baz. Something’s wrong. I don’t like--something’s wrong--I don’t like this…”

I have to squeeze my eyes shut, fingers trembling as I push away my comforter. “Then we figure it out,” I state coldly, stomping over to grab trousers. I feel his eyes on me as I go, traveling with me and holding onto the outline of my back as I go to get ready.

“Wh-what d-do you mmm-m-mean?”

Each word aches deeper. Snow’s emotions are a thick horse pill, and I’m trying to dry swallow. “We go find answers. Grab Bunce. Lock ourselves off in the library, and see how long we can hold off the battle. See what there is on time loops.”

He doesn’t argue, so I shut myself in the bathroom to prepare for the morning.

And he’s fully dressed when I step back out, stepping in after me to gargle mouthwash (how considerate) and splashing his face, as if I can’t see the strained redness. He stings. He hurts so much more than this whole occurrence has started to be.

This fucked up cycle is more of a thrumming pain. It shoots through my skin at a pulse, acting as a reminder that this is how life is for now. But Snow’s reaction is what digs a knife, or rather a sword, into my gut, again and again, without him even going for it. I gasp and sputter around the blade, then swallow the need to comfort him for my own good, but rather his.

It pierces me again when he steps back, looking more disheveled than usual, and nodding a head towards me. “C’mon,” he manages out, voice croaking. “Lunch room.”

I follow along, focusing on anything but other students. Rather, the grounds. The buildings. The soft ebb and flow and Simon’s curls, no matter how messy they are, in the late-spring breeze.

He pushes into the mess hall, telling me to wait at the doors as he goes to talk to Penny.

She looks distraught at first, looking over him, then at me, before back at him, and in the moment, I think that Simon’s telling her about the time loop. But that only lasts for a minute, before she’s following him to my side as we step back out.

“What  _ exactly _ is going on? What do you mean when you say ‘ _ I’ve fucked up royally _ ’, Simon?”

I give him a look, but he’s just distressed, stomping onwards in the direction of the library.

Suppose it’s my job to answer her, then. “I believe we’ve somehow nicked the natural order of time, and now we’ve been caught in a time-loop. Repetitive action. Day after day, all the same…”

She squints, then looks at Snow incredulously. “But that’s  _ impossible! _ There’s no Groundhog day sort of spells--it’s not possible to have that much magic channeled into…” She stops, voice dropping. “Simon, you couldn’t have…”

“I’m afraid he did,” I respond bitterly.

“What sets him off, then? Or set him off first, at least, to have that kind of--”

“Killing Baz.” His voice is icy, drilling with frustrations not geared towards me, but someone else. Himself, maybe.

It jolts Bunce, and makes my jaw clench, feeling his power radiate off him in a sharp wave.

My gaze falls back on our new companion, watching her study me as she gulps. “He… isn’t just saying that for shits and giggles, is he?”

“Afraid not,” I mumble. “The final battle happens this afternoon. Just like it has every other afternoon for the past few days.”

“Have you tried leaving the area? Waiting until midnight?”

I look up at Snow, shaking my head as I watch him slam the doors open and give a halfhearted grunt to the librarian. He leads us back to the only real Magickal Spells research section (fuck the Mage’s reforms), huffing and half grunting at us to start looking.

We let him go take a seat in a chair, smoke practically pouring off him as he tries to calm down.

Which, of course, leaves me with Bunce.

“I’m assuming you two are the only ones in the time loop, then.”

“That we know of, yes.” I reach for any book that might help us, handing Bunce a few in the process (she grabs the lower ones, I grab the higher).

“Right. Do you know if he cast any spell when it all…”

“No.” My head turns, glancing over to him. He’s got his back to us, shoulders hunched and head settled between his crossed arms laying on the counter. I force my voice quieter, despite choking to speak about it. “No. He stabbed me, then as I was fading, I felt his magic. Smelt the oncoming burning of his eruption, then… pop. Woke up in our bedroom.”

She looks over me, mouth pulling into a hard line. “He really just killed you?”

I nod. “Without a real hesitation.”  _ Every single word fucking hurts. Don’t make me repeat them. _

“And you expect me to believe you haven’t--”

I stare hard into her eyes, glaring as I utter back “Not once. You can ask him yourself, if you don’t believe me.”

She stares back, squinting harshly before either deciding I’m right, or it’s a battle she’d rather not concern herself with right now (and frankly, I agree with her).

As we make our way back, Snow shoots himself up while running both hands through his hair. I give him a halfhearted snarl, pulling out a seat and dropping the books onto the table while kicking up dust. He coughs, but I don’t feel bad.

  
“So what do we…”

“We look,” I start. “Run a  _ ‘Fine tooth comb’ _ for the phrase ‘Time loop’, then just ‘Time’, if it comes up hopeless.”

“What if it’s hopeless to start with?” He probably means his magic, not the search.

“Then you sit back and watch us do it,” I sigh, going to crack open the first book. “Perhaps share a bit of your findings from yesterday?”

Bunce raises her brows at him, making him squirm as he exhales.

“Saw The Mage yesterday--”

“In his Big Boy Playhouse.”

“--shut up. Anyway, he said the Old Families were planning an attack, but something about that sits… all odd.”

My automatic thought is to snap at him, telling him he’s an idiot if he even believed it for a second, but then it dawns on me that it’d be counterintuitive. Pertinence lies in however productive we can be until whatever happens to us today happens.

I cast “ ** _Fine tooth comb_ ** ” on the book twice, listening to him speak before I sigh, settling down my wand.

“He could be lying, Snow.”

“I don’t  _ want _ him to be.”

Bunce gives him a sympathetic look, while I just glare towards him and go to check through another book.

“Maybe you should try to run off tomorrow,” she says slowly, settling a hand onto Snow’s. “Sneak off campus, run to somewhere far enough where it’ll take The Humdrum to drag you back, and wait it out.”

“What… what about you?”

She shrugs. “Tell me to hide for the day. I know I’ll trust you, Si. Just say it forcefully enough, and probably not with Baz in tow, again.”

I raise a brow to her, but she just waves it off.

“No hard feelings.”

“Can’t say none particularly taken, but none taken to heart.”

She nods, turning back as Snow chews on his lip.

“I… guess. If it’s our best bet.”

She opens a second book, blowing out a breath through her nose as he taps her wand to it. “For now, yes,” she says, before going to run the spell over it.

It takes a couple hours, but we go through all the ones we got, even with new key words (Bunce demanded we just try “Groundhog Day” as one, but of course it didn’t work either), before we tried to go through other, less-expected books.

Still, nothing.

Snow goes to sneak off and grab lunch (give it to him to be the master of stealing and storing foods), bringing us back a fair armfull of sandwiches while complaining that he couldn’t spell some soup to-go.

We eat silently, all simultaneously lost in thought before going back to work. Bunce and Snow take a brief break somewhere in the middle, talking about something over by the research books as I try to comb over the stack with another word. It becomes a false hope, trying to believe something will come out of this, despite the only information coming up is the time-old knowledge that we cannot  _ bend _ time in such a fashion. That there have been powerful mages in the past who were able to stop time, for a few minutes, with all their energy to spell drained for weeks, but never has there been a mage who could set time on a recurring backlog. Relive the day for an unknown stretch of time…

It’s hopeless.

We’re hopeless.

I look to him, chewing his lip and tugging his hair, and I know it’s no point. I want to say so much about it--acknowledge it’s no way to live. That this is unhappy at best, but I know it’s a game to play without a winner. We’re pawns on a carousel, set spinning indefinitely until the inevitable result of something that’ll almost definitely be unwanted. The absolute hell of the knowledge that this is unavoidably our lives now.

It almost feels welcoming to hear the cries outside.

They’re closer here, startling Bunce but simply making Snow groan as he sinks further in his seat. “Should we go out there?” He grumbles.

I hesitate, glancing around. The door isn’t locked. In fact, there’s students and adults flooding out of the building and into the hallway leading to the yard. It’d be too easy for others to come in--to storm the building. Kill us all. Reset the loop.

“No,” I say quietly, looking over both of them. “It’s been a tolerable half-pleasure working with you both, today, but I fear we’re about to die.”

Giving them both a halfhearted smirk, Simon swallows back something, while Penny just looks over us both in a mild panic.

“Really? You’re both just going to--”

“It’s been days, Penn,” he reminds gently. “Not my first time dying.”

“Definitely not mine either.”

Snow looks like he’s been socked.

Which leaves Bunce to sigh, her eyes falling shut. “Do they raid?” she mumbles.

“I don’t know.”

Snow shrugs.

She sighs back, and nervously settles into her seat. “I don’t quite think I’ll  _ enjoy _ dying, but if you’re both sure this isn’t really death…”

Snow looks at her, the fresh sadness in his gaze filling something I wasn’t even aware of craving, “It’ll be okay, Penn. You won’t remember the pain. You’re not stuck.”

I try to ignore them for the rest, closing my eyes and exhaling before starting to feel the oncoming heat from below.

Oh fuck. They’re burning the place down.

I open my eyes urgently, breath catching as I look towards Snow and Bunce for guidance, but they’re just holding hands and closing their eyes, looking like some cult-ish reassurance and understanding as they “Move onto their next level of divine”, or whatever. And, of course, meanwhile I’m swallowing back my pride and gripping to my armrests for dear life, hoping the fire will catch soon.

It does.

Much sooner than I’d expect, watching a fireball burst through the window and set a nearby shelving unit ablaze.

Snow gapes at me as the flames start licking, going to say something that’s probably stupid before the heat starts wicking up me, and as suddenly as it started, it snaps me out.

\--

**SIMON**

“Baz!”

I shoot out of bed, trying to look over at him.

He’s groaning, turning over and rubbing his arms like he’s freezing to death as I’m jolted awake, panting as always.

It’s somehow a relief to see him alive, complaining already, given how sure I was that the fire would be different. It’d kill him different.

And the pain of watching his arm catch a small spark, then suddenly, it danced across his skin, burning him up like a piece of paper. His death, once again, searing into my brain and burning my edges. I want the thoughts gone.

He huffs at me, getting quieter. “I’m alive,” he snips, sounding a bit sarcastic (when doesn’t he). “If that’s what you were all worried about.”

_ Yes, I was. But piss off, you self-obsessed wanker. _ “Just had to make sure,” I breathe, heartbeat finally coming down after I know he’s accounted for. I push myself out of bed, taking a hand through my hair and tugging on the tuft of curls as I look down at the floorboards. “So uh… what we do about today? How do we get out?”

At first, he doesn’t move, making me half worried he just died of exhaustion from this past blur of a week (has it been a week? It’s been more than a few days, at this point). Then, he groans, keeping his back to me. “You’re bound to know the closest train, or bus route. Unless The Mage makes you hitchhike here on the yearly.”

I want to be offended, but after our interaction the other day, I’m still not entirely sure how to react. “No, I do,” I say quietly, shifting and scratching my arm. “Well, I know train. Not bus. And Normals don’t like coming near the school, so if you have a contraband cell I doubt an Uber will work.”

He glances over. “What are you suggesting?”

“It’s not an awful walk. An hour, at most. We’ll have to lie-low, in case The Mage’s Range Rover rolls past.”

Baz scoffs, then buries himself back into his blankets. “Fuck The Mage.”

He’s got a point.

“Come on,” I huff, pushing myself up. “We have to get going at some point, and I’ve got to catch Penny before we leave.”

He keeps the blanket pulled to his chin as I brush past his bedpost, watching him scrunch up his face in frustration. Which, for some unknown and odd reason, I find it almost endearing. Dark creature who just doesn’t want to get out of bed (despite the world ending around him). Poetic.

I don’t spend long in the bathroom, just going to brush my teeth and splash my face before going to pack a (hopeful) bag. There isn’t much  _ to _ pack. A school hoodie, the two pairs of jeans I’ve managed to snag from public Lost & Founds, a school shirt, my own shirt, school trousers…

Baz is finally getting up by the time I’m finished. Which, fair to say, doesn’t take longer than a few minutes.

I start changing as I hear his morning shower running, looking over my reflection in the tacked up mirror inside the dresser’s door.

It’s always been a bit warped--not the best quality (or maybe just old). Over the years, I’ve used it as a way of looking at Baz over my shoulder. Keep an eye on him--make sure he wasn’t spelling my bed drenched, or something like that.

Instead, right now, I’m looking at myself. Really looking at myself.

All my features. Every little cut, every little turn.

It feels foreign. I feel foreign. Like I’m renting this body--like I’m renting this day. A trial period after trial period, pushing me further from myself as each loop restarts.

I thought I could recognize myself. I thought I could recognize my face, my jaw. My eyes. But it’s all greyed. DIfferent than when this started.

I look at myself, and I’m a murderer.

I wonder what his blood looked like on my hands--if it met my face. If where he touched my cheek had been left streaked…

Baz comes out, and I’m crying.

He doesn’t say anything.

I don’t know whether or not it’s because it’s barely noticeable. My eyes are stinging and a bit red, but nothing else is clear. And I think, for just a second, I just look tired.

Or maybe I’m convincing myself that.

We look over one another once his bags packed and set, then flick off the room’s lights.

I hope I never come back.

We make our silent march down, looking casual with school bags slightly overstuffed. Baz spelled his like the TARDIS (which is a spell I’ve always been fond of, but never could master--  _ “Bigger on the inside” _ . Penny uses it for the pockets on her cardigans and jeans, saying that they never really give the women’s clothes enough room), but it still looks a bit bulky.

I don’t think anyone notices.

Anyone except Penny, even though I’d left Baz outside.

She looks a bit confused, looking like she’s about to say something before I shake my head and cut her off. “You need to trust me,” I whisper sharply. “ _ Hide _ .”

Her face starts with concerned, then a mild panic. “What do you--”

“I don’t have time.” I glance towards the door. At least he’s staying outside. “You just have to trust me. Hide. Go to the Catacombs.”

“Are you  _ sending me away _ while you go off on a mission?”

I swallow, then shake my head. “No,” I say quietly. “It’s too complicated, and it’ll take you a whole day to understand, so please, Penny.” I take her hand. “Do this for me.”

I can tell she’s suspicious, but I don’t have the mental energy to tell her everything. I just have the energy to hope.

And at least she follows through this time. “Fine,” she huffs. “Does it have to be the Catacombs?”

I shrug. “Preferably below ground. Away from where anyone can find you.”

She nods slowly, then quints. “Is there something happening…?”

“You’ll see,” I say quietly before going to slip a few scones into my pocket and head out the double doors.

I find Baz leaned up against the outside wall, standing in a way that anyone else would find cool and casual, but I just see it as exhaustion. “Oi.”

He snaps up, glaring over. “Well?”

“She listened. Let’s go.”

He nods, starting to trudge towards the gates.

I think, at first, that we’ll run into trouble--a wall of The Mage’s men, ready to ward us off, but instead, we don’t even see a single guard. The gate might as well be open.

We step out, and my first thought is to run, then to duck, then to try to hike our way through the forest, but watching Baz start to walk settles my nerves a bit. To trail him, at least.

He stays silent, so I stay silent, marching alongside and staring at the trees, staring at the bushes. Staring at anything that doesn’t make me feel guilty. The road; gravel beneath my feet, kicking up a bit with each step I take, taking us closer to something--anything.

That anything happens to be the usual town I pull in on.

I don’t say anything to him, taking the hem of his sleeve and tugging him along with me. 

It isn’t until we’re close that I speak up, dropping his arm. “D’you have your wallet?”

He nods.

“Good. You’re paying.”

He doesn’t argue (I think we’ve both figured there’s no rhyme or reason to it, at this point). “Any wise plans for once we’re in the city?”

“That… involved your wallet again.”

He scoffs. “What do you think my bank account looks like? An infinity symbol and a thumbs up emoji?”

“Yeah.”

I turn my head and catch him rolling his eyes, arms flying up to cross over his chest as we stomp along, legs at a dull ache from the trek. The clouds threaten to break, but by this point, I know they won’t. It’ll only sink deeper into a cloudy, overcast, harrowing darkness until the events occur…

I make myself turn from him, trying to swallow the guilty lump that won’t quite go away yet.

Of all things I want to do, apologizing isn’t one of them. Admitting I was wrong--admitting I  _ killed _ someone ( _ I killed him _ )--it’s a disgusting pill. One caked in dirt and blood. But it’s something that should be done, if we want to really work through this and get ourselves out of this hell scape, if it’s even possible, now.

We march into the town, and I lead us to the train stop, letting him pay for the ticket as I glance warily around for anyone recognizable (I don’t know  _ why _ The Mage’s Men would be here of all places, but caution never truly hurt anybody who was fleeing). Thankfully, we make it past the ticket office and onto our platform shortly, only waiting about 10 minutes of, albeit awkward silence, before our ride arrives.

He takes the window seat, and I don’t complain. I’m too guilty to fight him, now.

I’m  _ too _ guilty overall.

I look at him, and choke on it again. Practically gag at the sight of him.

“Baz…” I let out.

He turns to me, brows raising then pulling together quizzically. “Please tell me you don’t get motion sickness.”

I shake my head, pause, nod, then shake my head again. “Not about that. I’m fine here, and it’s really only in cars--fuck. Just… no. It’s not that.”

His expression doesn’t even twitch. “Then what?”

I gulp, then pull my gaze to my hands, threading at the strings of my trackies. “Should we talk? Is that what people do?”

“Well, typically, yes, people converse. But I feel no explicit drawing to try to hold a conversation with someone who can barely get through his ‘ _ um’ _ s.”

My lips automatically pull into a frown, lump settling deeper in my throat as I push out a growl. “Not that,” I warn. “You know what I’m getting at.”

“Do I?”

“ _ Yes _ . You’re so bloody smart, you’re bound to know.”

He scans me once, then turns his head completely away. “I have an idea,” he relents, “but I’m not completely sure as to what you’re referring to.”

“The… death… thing…”

“Which ‘ _ death thing _ ’ of ours? You’ll need to narrow this down.”

“The first--you know the one. The one where I… you know… and you…” I catch his eyes, letting it well inside of me. “Why’d you let me kill you?”

The air feels still. Suffocating. His gaze drowns me--the intensity of a black hole, ripping through my atoms and rearranging them to spill out into a body and world I don’t recognize. One in which I could slide a sword through him like butter, then wake up with the conscious that he knows what I’ve done.

Silence.

Dead silence.

The steady thrum of the air conditioner, and the patterned bump of the wheels against track, wobbling our car along the way.

It’s hard to try to look away from him. It’s hard to ignore what’s right in front of me, because it’s nothing. A whole lot of nothing.

No anger, no resentment. Not even the turn of his eyes. He simply stares, blinking openly towards me as I break off that tension of guilt he’s set onto me so heavily.

Why won’t he fucking speak?

I try to stare harder, hesitantly grabbing his hands tightly and squeezing them in mine. He freezes, joints going stiff as I wrap my fingers around them. “We’re in this together,” I say harshly, sounding more hurt than intended (and I have  _ no _ right to be the hurt one). “Whether we like it or not--now  _ please _ tell me why.”

His hands stay still in mine, jaw clenching and unclenching as his left hand--that same hand--lifts up and brushes back to my cheek, swiping over my skin. I feel my breath catch, mouth falling further open as his skin fully rests against mine.

His eyes don’t move. They stay trained.

“Does that ring a bell?”

He’s icy.

And bitter.

And hurt. Definitely bloody hurt, and definitely, rightfully so, but I can’t quite break it. Can’t make it through the code--understand as to  _ why _ he’s holding my cheek, and not like he’s going to break my neck, but rather just to cradle the skin on top. He’s holding me like he wants to, not like I need him to.

“What are you playing at?” I whisper cautiously, eyeing him up and jolting as he responds in a harsh shove.

His hand retracts, slapping back to his crossed chest before he turns towards his window. “Fuck off.”

I’m a bit too stunned to retaliate, blinking openly at him as our ride continues to thunder towards London, It leaves me open and blank, open ( _ begging _ ) for answers beyond a simple touch. Was it to say it’s ok?

Was it to say that he forgives me?

Or was it to say he’ll never forgive me?

By the looks of it, I’m not sure he’ll want to talk again. So, of course, I drop it. I let it all go, pushing the thought away for the time being (at least that was an  _ acknowledgement _ ) as I turn and frustratedly stare down the carriage hall.

We arrive in London not too long after, clutching our bags and making our way into the city.

“What do you recommend we do?” It’s the first time he’s spoken since he told me off.

“Hotel. Get dinner. Stay in. Hope.”

“Sounds like a checklist.”

“Sort of is, if you want to see it that way.”

As I look up to him, he’s snorting, lips in a rare half-smile (it’s such a sad one at that) as he starts to walk deeper into the foot traffic of the pavement. I follow, of course, and hope he has some idea as to where he’s going, because I mostly don’t.

In all fairness, I’m rarely ever  _ in _ London. We’ve had a class trip or two, and I’ve been in a London care home for a summer, but The Mage suggests I don’t spend too much time here--never really know what’s hiding, you know? More people means more enemies, and more enemies means more danger. More unpredictability.

I stare at him, lip pulling into my mouth as I think and worry over it.

He’s supposed to be my enemy, but he’s the only thing that feels safe here.

“I’m sorry,” I say, at last.

He turns to me, blinking through his deep frown as I repeat it, openly.

“I said I’m sorry. I regret it--I regret it more than you’d probably believe, but I can’t change it. I can just say sorry.”

At first, it feels like a breakthrough. Like can we get over this shit, and go off to stop the battle, but then he speaks (and ruins it all). “Trying to clear a conscious, Snow?”

“Yes,” I bark. “Fuck you, yeah, a bit, but I’m also trying to  _ apologize _ , you bitter fucking brat.”

He sneers, turning his head as he walks a bit faster and makes me half-jog to keep up.

“What? Can’t I fucking apologize?”

“Not now.”

“Why not now?”

He whips around, making me stumble a bit and nearly fall as I pull into a stop.

“Because,” he snarls. “Perhaps it didn’t  _ occur _ to you, but the last thing I really  _ want _ to think about right now is death. We’d always figured you’d kill me, and there. You got to. Now help the  _ both _ of us by shutting up and focusing on  _ surviving? _ Thank you.”

Fuck.

I nod, scratching my neck awkwardly as the people around us keep at a whistling speed, walking in an oblivious stream. Nobody knows how many days they’ve been at this.

“Fine. Yeah--fine. Yes. Fair,” I grumble, looking down and only moving once he starts walking again, trudging through traffic to get us to a hotel.

The lobby’s quite nice, but not overtly so. It’s just… a place. A safe, unsuspecting place.

I leave Baz to do all the last minute checking in, figuring he seems more like a proper adult than I am (especially with me stumbling over nearly all my words).

He nods to me, exhausted and holding two key cards. I snag one, and follow him to the lift.

It’s a decent room. Two twin beds. Not really much of a view, but it doesn’t matter. We draw the blinds anyway, and agree to order in-takeaway (it’s too much emotionally to drag ourselves out for food).

We turn on the telly instead, sitting on our respective beds (like we would at Watford) as he checks his mobile on occasion.

I catch him trying to call people in the corner of my eye, but each time, it rings out then stops. He doesn’t bother with the voicemail.

“What do you think…”

“You know what I think.”

I shake my head. “Not that. I’d meant… what do you think we do  _ if _ we wake up here tomorrow. Where do we go? What do we do?”

“We repopulate the English World of Mages single handedly together,” he quips, looking at me and leaving nothing of joy on his face. He just seems bored.

“Funny,” I mumble back, sniffing awkwardly before shifting to properly turn to him. He mutes the telly. “What do we do? What do we tell people?”

“Well, I assume you rise to your rightful throne, or whatever it is your precious Mage built for you to sit on and claim, then you kill me again to assure I don’t try to take it in the dead of night. There might be the added sexiness of the old royal crowns and capes, if we’re lucky.”

Pause. “I wouldn’t kill you.”

“ _ That’s _ what you got from that?”

“Not fully,” I try. “But… I want it to be said. And established.”

He groans, but I continue.

“I won’t hurt you, Baz. Not anymore. Not after… all that.” I look down at the bedding. It’s nice enough. Comfortable. “Like I’d said, you and I are in this. Doesn’t matter if we like it or not, and I don’t  _ want _ to hurt you. I didn’t know what to do, Baz. I  _ panicked _ . It’s been a weird year, and I’d thought… I’d thought…”

“You thought I’d hurt you?”

“I mean  _ yeah _ ! Of course I thought you’d hurt me--you’ve antagonized me for  _ years _ , why wouldn’t you hurt me?”

He visibly retracts a bit, scooting further inward as he stares at the telly, watching people talk to others with no audio, nor subtitles. Just talking. “I was protecting my family, Snow. What’s left of them. If you’d come to kill them, maybe I would’ve, but you only wanted one thing. If I’m that one thing, then so be it.”

“Do you think I wanted to kill you?” I sound strangled. Maybe I am.

He looks at me, really looks at me, then swallows and turns right back away. “Do you think I wanted to die?”

“No.”

“Well, you’re wrong.”

I gawk at him, struggling to properly process what he’s saying.

“Baz…”

He glances over, then scoffs, brows dropping and looking a bit disappointed in  _ me _ for a minute. “Oh--no I’m not  _ actively _ … I won’t jump from this window, if that’s what you’re thinking. Not that it’ll make a difference, possibly, because we may just wake up in Watford anyway, but it always  _ had _ to be like this, hadn’t it? How else do you cope with the concept of having to fight  _ The Chosen One _ ? You don’t. You cope by understanding that he’ll  _ have _ to kill you, and it’ll be it. His  _ golden destiny _ . His picket fence, his perfect girl. And you’re just the one in his path.”

Everything in me screams to reach out and touch him.

He’s close enough that I can--I even try lifting up my hand, but it falls back. So abruptly dim.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He waves his hand.

“I’m serious. This is fucked up-- _ everything _ is fucked up. But we have the chance to un-fuck it up. The universe didn’t want you dead--it didn’t want me to kill you.” I manage to reach across, grabbing his hand and holding it tightly (he doesn’t let go). “That’s why we’ve got this. Some second, or like, sixth chance bullshit. It wants you alive.  _ I _ want you alive.” When he looks at me, I just say it again. “I want you alive, Baz.”

He stares, just long enough for it to sink into his flesh, and he gives me a single squeeze back before pulling his hand from mine and turning away to shut off his light, pushing himself under the covers silently.

I’ll take that.

I’ll take anything but the guilt.

This at least feels like something. It feels like a breakthrough.

I exhale, standing up and throwing the empty boxes of takeaway left from my bed before going to shower quickly then lay down.

My watch says it’s 10:46, but my body says it’s much later. My body says it’s years later, bearing the weight of the past few days as if I’ve been carrying it for much longer.

I exhale, body sinking further into the comfort of the bed as I start to drift off, clinging to the new surroundings and mentally pleading for them to stay for the next day.

\--

**BAZ**

Fuck.

I don’t even need to open my eyes to face the disappointment. The stench of the moat is clear as day here, regardless as to how far down it actually is.

I know, fearfully, that Snow is awake too--I can feel it. I can feel his magic, pulsating off him and making the room already feel like a fire hazard.

It wafts up around us, and when I open my eyes, I only see the smoke hovering about. Then, in the corner of my eye, I see sparks flying out of his bed. He’s already working himself up before I can stand, shifting and hauling myself over the side of the bed.

Snow’s practically on fire.

“Simon!” I try to bark, sounding muddled even to my own ears. “Sn--”

“Fuck this!” he snaps, head shaking as he tears his fingers through it. “Fuck! Fuck everything! I--we--”

“Breathe!” I call, reaching over shakily. I doubt he can even see me. “You’re gonna set the bed on fire, you dimwit.”

  
He huffs harder, glaring over me with glowing skin and a frenzied cloud of energy buzzing around him. His eyes are practically glowing. “Let the fucking room burn. Maybe it’ll finally kill us.”

Crowley, I’m shaking. My hands trembling roughly as I try to outstretch it, disappearing into a smoky oblivion and fuzzling out with a quick snap and flash of light.

At first, when I open my eyes, I think it’s the next day, but the remnants of Snow’s explosion are still buzzing around and filling the room.

His side of the room is half-charred, with some remaining embers glowing faintly.

I stumble back, pressing against the wall as his chest struggles to level across the room, smoke spilling out of our windows. At first, I think that this  _ will _ be it. Something will catch onto my bed, and it’ll be Snow’s fire that properly puts me out, but the steady growing of heavy footsteps on the steps warns me of something more sinister.

Something that’s roughly 5’8”, and dresses like a fucking Kermit cosplayer.

Something that rips through our door, looking over Snow, then at me, snarling half heartedly. A vague threat, more of motive. A push to fucking end me.

“What’ve you done to him?” He snarls, a similar tone to which I’d heard before. Nearly in a gruffer version of Snow’s.

My lip pulls up wearily, hand wiping my face helplessly. “Nothing,” I grumble, shaking my head. “Nothing you’d do.”

He scans me, scoffing and pointing his wand at me and flatly saying “ ** _Out of sight, out of mind_ ** .”

\--

**SIMON**

The room’s at a reset when we wake. Not a thing out of place--like every other morning.

Except this time, I’m choked up, and barely swallowing back my consciousness.

Baz, on the other hand, is already stomping into the bathroom and slamming the faucet on. He’s silent, but the harsh splash of water and the thunk of hands against the countertop tells me he’s at the very least frustrated if not angry.

Yesterday was… I don’t know what yesterday was. One moment I was angry--I couldn’t see anything around me. I couldn’t see him. He was talking to me, trying to talk me down, but the crashing weight of waking up somewhere so familiar yet so unwelcoming felt like a blow to the head.

  
Fate, or maybe something worse. Maybe we’ve actually died that first time, and this is just punishment.

I hear the water cut, the rough scrub of his face to a towel, then the creak of the door. Pushing myself upright, I catch the quick look on his face before he turns away, expression going blank as he reaches for his dresser.

“Baz, I--”

He raises a hand, cutting me off. “You don’t want to know.”

“But I  _ do _ . I can’t just miss and entire day.”

“Well, you did. And that’s all.”

He turns about, eyes dropping to my legs as I swing myself around to the edge. He stays silent, hands on a tie as he watches me struggle to think it over.

“Fucking hell,  _ please? _ We agreed on this--the team shit. You can’t just go off and say ‘Fuck you’ and not tell me.”

I watch his adam’s apple bob, jaw working into a tight clench as his long fingers slowly start to crease around the tie. Baz has got such a blunt way of thinking. Looking cold and calculated, while distant and, frankly, intelligent. He  _ looks _ smart when he’s thinking. Like there’s so many ideas in his head, and he’s whittling them down to be the best possible answer.

“Fine,” he snaps, lip curling up. “But I can guarantee you won’t like it.”

“That’s fine. I’m fine with that.”

He sneers, turning around to grab the rest of his clothes. “It was The Mage,” he says coldly. “Came up here after you went off, and he used an illegal spell to… get rid of me, in the simplest of terms.”

“What do you--”

He turns to me, expression blank. “He didn’t think twice. He killed me, Snow.”

Something about it settles both in all the right and all the wrong places. It clicks, then falls apart. It chokes in my throat like a dry swallowed pill, and I’d rather just cough it up than swallow it down like this.

“Are you sure?” I caution, watching him groan and roll his eyes before stomping back towards the bathroom.

“Merlin, I wish I fucking wasn’t,” he says with the shut of the door, closing me off completely.

In the time of his morning shower, I dress and half heartedly rehearse what I’m going to do today.

Go about the day. Act normal. Act stable. Try to figure out what to do, how to go about this. Talk to Baz around lunch, then we go about the day--go back to the battle. See what we’re missing--see what’s happening that we can’t see. See the underlying issues, then weed them out. Blow this up from the inside out.

I’m pacing when he steps out, seeming exasperated by my worrying.

“You’re going to burn tracks into the bloody floorboards, Snow.”

My head whips up, ring fingernail in my mouth as I perk. “I’m thinking.”

“Hm. Rarity.”

I frown. “Just… day plans. Trying to figure this shit out.”

He drops his towel into his hamper, going for his shoes as I start to inch towards the bathroom mid-thought.

“Just… hear me out. We do another day of research. Another day of snooping, I guess, and then we figure out what to do with it tomorrow. See what we can search for then.”

I just see him shrug, looking strangely defeated.

“What?” I say it before I mean it (I shouldn’t care about him  _ that _ much, but it hurts to know how exhausting this is for the both of us).

“Do you want me to say something sharp, Snow? Don’t really have much to share here, besides the continuous stream of death that you’re looped into as well.”

Shit. “I guess.”

He lifts his head, staring across at me as I itch my arm. “Use the bloody loo, Snow. I’m not stopping you from getting your morning scones.”

It’s my turn to shut him out with that, bitterly going to brush my teeth.

He isn’t in the dining hall once I’m down there, but he’s there in classes, and there waiting for me outside the tower as I’m stomping over for lunch.

He’s not meeting my eyes, and he looks like he’s been down to the catacombs, given the slight pink in his cheeks and around his edges (he  _ smells _ like he’s been in the catacombs--slightly musky, and slightly like death). (Maybe that’s just his usual smell. I mean, we’re awfully close right now, leaned up against the wall.)

“Got any updates?”

He shakes his head. He’s got something peering out of his pocket--a mobile.

“Is that...”

“Yes, it is. And my family’s clueless as of earlier this morning. Said everything’s the usual so far.”

He’s focused on his hands, picking at his cuticles. They look dirty, a little caked in dried blood. He’s definitely gone feeding.

“Do… you want to go back somewhere to strategize.”

“Crowley, no. Can’t you spend one day out of battle mode?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

We stare at one another in silence, the air tight.

I can smell the kitchen. The window’s not far from here--it’s still the same lunch as it’s been for days, and the same lunch it  _ will _ be for however long we have until we figure this out (either figure out death, or figure out how to stop it).

“You need to eat.” He sounds soft (or tired). (Probably tired.)

“So do you.”

He goes to pick at his nail again. So oblivious that it worries me. He’s giving himself away. After years of hiding, it smacks me in the face that he no longer have the energy to care to keep it hidden.

Although, I don’t think I care about the vampire stuff anymore. Even after this, it’s something to brush under the rug. Something to forget.

Maybe he’ll trust me enough to know fully, too.

“I’m going in. Let’s see what happens in class.”

He nods, exhaling and forcing his composure back. “Yes. Right. Class.”

“Yeah, class.” He’s acting so strangely.

So, so strangely.

We break apart, me going in a minute or so before him and stocking a plate full before scarfing it down beside Penny. She tells me to use a napkin halfheartedly, sipping at her tea as she scans over a textbook.

It makes me feel sick.

I push through lunch and barely go through the rest of the day, practically itching to get to the battle.

I get to the outside of our class, watching Baz start down the hall before grabbing his arm and dragging him away without any protest.

“Found something?” He asks, barely anything remaining of hope in his voice. It makes me feel sick.

“Hm? What--no. Not yet, no. Just thought we might want to sneak around a bit before it all goes off.”

“You’re the one going off--”

“You know what I mean.”

He raises a brow, which calms me in the weirdest fucking way.

“Fine,” he says coldly. “Where to, then?”

I shrug. “Didn’t think that far.”

I hear him sigh, my eyes darting out down the hall and trying to catch any leftover foot traffic in hopes of something suspicious. But, of course,  _ we’re _ the only suspicious ones out here. But we don’t have much leverage in changing that, plus who cares, they’ll forget by tomorrow.

“How about where the battle happens?” He deadpans, but I shake my head back.

“Too obvious. Too clear.”

He sighs louder, back hitting the wall in a soft thud as he waits. “What? Haunt the rafters instead? Dig a tunnel--see if there’s an underground route--”

“The Mage’s garage.”

He pauses, then looks bored. “You know, I’ve never known you as one to joke, but--”

“I’m serious. We should go see what he’s doing. Maybe he’ll have answers.”

“Oh, brilliant. I love dying in the process.”

I frown. “Well, who else would help us?”

“Anyone.”

I open my mouth, then shut it, huffing out quietly while doing a once over of him. He’s got an almost slouch to him, shirt less neatly tucked and crumpling under his jumper. His sleeves are haphazardly rolled up in a casualness I’ve never quite seen from him, and it’s unsettling. It’s bloody fucking jarring to see  _ Baz _ , of all people, not taking care of himself.

“Fine,” I mumble. “Battlefield.”

He nods, slipping away and leading me down the halls quickly. We slip out of the building, and onto the grass, heading towards the lawn at a near racing-walking speed.

There’s a commotion when we get there. A crowd of various ages, slowly being surrounded by familiar outfits--Mage’s Men outfits.

I swallow, then look at Baz, finding him scanning the crowd desperately before a single, loud cry breaks out of the grounds. It’s a woman’s, and it pierces the air before it all breaks loose.

I almost lose track of him, watching him sprint down the field in a clouded haze. I know where he’s going. I know where he always goes. He goes to his family.

“Baz, stop!” I cry, grabbing hold of the hem of his jumper, but he doesn’t slow. He’s practically dragging me. “Baz!”

Suddenly, he screeches to a halt, heaving slightly as he whips around and glares me down. “Oh just fucking kill me,” he snaps, reaching for my hip and grabbing at the fabric as to where my sword would be summoned.

“Wha--”

“You heard me,” he hisses, stepping closer and towering closer, breath hitting my forehead, and when my neck cranes. My face. “Fucking slit me open--end this shit.  _ Please _ .”

“I--what if you--”

“Oh for Merlin’s fucking sake,” he breathes, hand slotting against my face so familiarly that I feel like he might snap my neck before it hits me.

Or, rather, he hits me.

Not literally. Not with his fist, but rather his lips.

They crash forward messily, pressing to my own in an awkward, half-parted, mostly dry manner.

I freeze against him, hands flying up and outwards over my chest and waiting to see whether or not I should shove him to the ground (hold him down and figure this shit out), or to bring him closer.

I let him make the decision, feeling him draw back before I get to pick and leaving me no other option than to grab him and kiss him back.

He stumbles about, hands flying back to my hips and gripping them unsurely, holding a iron-gripped distance as I tug and cling tighter, pressing his lips to my own while fearing the uncertainty that he might go right off the rails.

We stumble, then break, staring at one another fearfully before pressing back.

I feel his hands loosen, then loop, draping about my hips and circling around me as I open my mouth to his and prod my tongue into his.

I swear he squeaks when I let back, trying to pull myself back to reality while the shouts and clamour grows louder and louder with each passing second. “Baz…”

He shakes his head, eyes falling shut and setting his forehead to mine. “We need to leave,” he whispers, only for me.

This is all only for me. Everything else will disappear around us. There’s no show to give, no display of power.

We leave this day, and he’s still stuck with me and the kiss we’d just shared.

“How?” Merlin, I’m fucking choked. I don’t know what to say to him. I don’t know  _ how _ to say it.

He looks sad. Fucking hell he looks sad. When has Baz Pitch ever looked sad? “Sword,” he whispers, face falling towards my ear. “In the mood for a murder suicide?”

“Not particularly,” I whisper back, face turning to press my lips to his cheek. I don’t want this to be happening (all of  _ this _ around us, not  _ this _ … I think I do want  _ this _ , though).

“Either you do it, or someone else does,” he warns in almost a coo, making my blood run icy and numbing my limbs. He’s right. He’s always bloody right.

I close my eyes, summoning my sword under my breath as I feel his hands wrap carefully around my bicep, holding himself still. I exhale, scrunching my nose and kissing him once more before pushing it into his torso, feeling the familiar tack of rushing blood follow the drag of the blade.

I gasp, trying to settle back my magic as I draw it out, feeling Baz slumping against me as I hold it to myself, counting down from three before abruptly, without hesitation, stabbing it back inside of me.

\--

**BAZ**

I shouldn’t be so shocked to actually wake up again.

Nevertheless, I am.

I’d thought, for just a moment, that maybe that’d be it. Some bullshit of magickal kiss breaks the spell, and we all finally die, and so on and so on.

Instead, I wake up across the room from Snow, holding my breath as the silence hangs clear for an extended, tangible second of time.

It’s splintered off by the creaking of his bed, the quick shuffle of his sheets, and the sudden launch of his body onto mine.

I jolt just slightly, locking up when his lips meet mine and his body finds itself working under my sheets beside me.

I have to admit, this entire revelation is a shock to me. I’d assumed (as what I’d thought was rightfully so), that Snow would push me off and put his blade through me again, same spot, and cut the looping there. But he kissed me. Bloody bastard went off and kissed me, doing exactly what I wanted, exactly what I feared, exactly what I’ve tried to keep hidden, and snogged me right then and there.

And he’s pushing up to me again, slotting his hands around my face and sinking into my hair, making me whine like I’ve never let myself before, pressing back into him clumsily as I try to work this out.

Whatever “this” might be.

Finding the answer to that might be difficult, but I know what I have to do.

Which is, to my internalized delight, is to continue snogging Simon Snow.

Especially since he’s properly enthusiastic, holding himself half-propped over me as I settle back, searching his shoulders and arms for a proper place to hold as he gives me the sweetest little grunts, trying to evoke Crowley knows what from me. And, fucking hell, it’s working, because I can’t help myself from letting out these whimpers back.

His hand loops, shuffling and pressing to my lower back and hiking me up against him. I melt, letting him work his magic on me because I’m nothing but a pile of flesh and drained energy, hoping to cling to this walking powerplant to get us through whatever’s ahead of us.

Because I, shamefully, don’t have a plan anymore.

I’m wrung out and emptied.

I’ve  _ been _ dead. I’ve been dead for so long that even death doesn’t feel like properly dying anymore.

But Snow? Snow’s still warm. And soft. And his hair’s mushed from sleeping (if you want to call it that), and his breath isn’t the most appealing, but bloody hell, he’s kissing me like I’m the only thing he wants to be touching, and even if I never get this again, I’ll take what I’ve got now.

I tug him down, pressing myself forward and letting him break off and worry at my jaw and throat, teeth grazing against my collar as my shirt starts to get tugged at. “Fuck,” I murmur, eyes falling shut and body buzzing at his touch.

Which he stops abruptly, mouth pulling off and head lifting unsurely.

“Fuck as in stop..?”

I chuckle breathlessly, shaking my head. “Fuck as in never stop, you absolute moron.”

He raises both brows to me, a slight smile peeking out of his face as his mouth drops back, nipping at my skin and pushing a warm palm under my pyjama top.

With a gasp, I pull myself away with just barely enough space to no longer feel his breath on my skin. “Wait.”

His head turns up, eyes wide and so vastly open that it makes me shiver.

“Let’s run away again. One more time--forget about what happens today and go back to London.”

He thinks it over briefly, nodding without needing much convincing as his hand smoothes over my chest. “Okay,” he whispers. “Yeah, fine, okay, yeah. What, uh. What did you have in mind for that, then?”

I clear my throat. “Well, instead of trying to tiptoe across parts of the countryside, I could just order us a Lyft once we’re half a mile down the road and take that into town.”

He blinks. “Well, ruin the fun of it, I guess.”

I can’t help from rolling my eyes at him, letting myself slip into a smirk. “Mm. I’m sorry the sex appeal of sneaking off has been diminished.” (Holy fuck I’m flirting with Simon Snow.)

“‘S Fine. We’ll just have to make up for it when we get to London.”

“The sneaking or the sexiness?”

“Both.”

I snort, swatting his hand away as I haul myself up. “We tumble around snogging for what, half an hour, and now you expect something from me? I’m not that easily bought, Snow.”

He doesn’t let up, despite my self-sabotage. He still grins at me, humming. “What, you? Baz Pitch being  _ cheap? _ Never thought of you being so forgiving and ready to give over, but given it’s the end of our world…”

“Good luck. We’ll be here again tomorrow.”

Our eyes lock, then his mouth drops to a somber smile, brows pulling into a nervous twitch. “I know,” he whispers. “And I’m sorry.”

“Why are you apologizing?”

“Everything’s usually my fault, or I do something wrong, so I just like to cover my bases before I even get started.”

Sound logic. Can’t really argue with that.

I nudge him off, stretching with a tiny groan before heading off to the bathroom to fix up and get ready for the day.

Snow butts in after a few minutes, nudging me to use the sink simultaneously as I’m brushing my teeth. I frown, but he hums in a peaceful tone, falling into an odd domestic bliss beside me.

As if we haven’t been spending the days coping with the fact that he’d murdered me without much of a second thought.

I look down at him, brush in mouth as he scrubs happily with his. He catches me in the mirror, elbow gentling nudging me into nudging him back, starting a calm back and forth of contact. Some sort of touching. Some sort of physical reminders that we’re here together, and we’re not letting go.

As I’m rinsing, I close my eyes, exhaling quietly.

He’s not in control of his actions. Of what he’s taught.

I’m not always in control of my thoughts. My feelings.

I look at him, and he turns to me, curls messy and smile soft, and I let it go.

I have countless days left of this one. We’ve lived so many of them already. His consciousness snapped him out of that old mindset--the battle mentality. The need to just kill.

Now we’re left with a whittled down Snow. A softer one.

One who nudges into domesticity with his bloody enemy right after they’ve been snogging, and I’m just lucky enough to be that receiving end.

In a moment of weakness, I kiss his hair, hand swiping across his back as I pass through into our room. I pack, dressing myself and making sure I have the baseline essentials as he steps out to join, just throwing a tee and sweats into a bag before he changes into his uniform.

“Should we tell Penny today?”

I shrug back. “What’s the point? She’ll be here tomorrow anyway.”

He frowns. “I don’t like the idea of her getting hurt, though.”

“We all died in a room the other day. I think it’ll be something you can cope with later.”

His mouth opens, then closes, pulling tight before he nods.

I nod back, grabbing out my mobile and sending for a Lyft before we march down and out the gates, confident from the days before without any security measures.

It’s not a far walk, and the ride pulls up not long after we arrive, taking the relatively short trip into town. Snow holds onto my arm the entire time, with shut eyes and careful breathing. Which, in turn, reminds me of what he said the other day about motion sickness--he really does get carsick.

We thank the driver and head in, grabbing tickets and sitting together once it arrives.

His hand slips against mine, my mind spinning with each and every one of his subtle, sweet movements. “Snow…” I start, eyes fearfully not tearing away from our joined skin in fears that it’ll break right back apart.

He doesn’t bring his back, though. He actually just squeezes me tighter. “Yeah?”

“I… are you even gay? Do you know what you’re doing? What are  _ we _ doing--”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean you don’t know?!”

“I mean… I don’t know. I don’t know, I just… don’t know...”

“You can’t just not know.”

“I mean, I like snogging you, if that makes any difference. And are  _ you _ even gay?”

“Yes. Very.”

“Oh.”

I sigh, rolling my eyes and turning my head towards the window. He shuts up, exhaling and squeezing my hand to just pull me right back.

“I’m liking this, Baz,” he whispers. “I’m trying to forget  _ everything _ else happening right now, and I’m trying to focus on the other thing that isn’t making me sick to my stomach to do, and that’s acting like nothing’s wrong now that I’m here with you. I’m fucking indulging. I never fucking indulge.”

“I’m surprised you know what the world indulge means.”

He glares, but I stick my nose up back, letting myself give him a little smile.

He exhales, smiling back as he leans in and kisses my cheek.

I pull back slightly, studying his half-lidded eyes before leaning back to kiss him properly.

We do have the collective decency, though, to let back after a few moments and just sit in silence, leaned up against one another and waiting for the train to take us in.

Thankfully, the ride isn’t long, and we know where to head this time.

And, at the hotel, Snow demands that I get us a single queen bed, feeling awfully proud to say that (and probably awfully mature, too). (Although, I don’t know if Snow’s new to this, because I surely am. Of course there was Wellbelove, but they always seemed like the “Save intimacy for after the apocalypse” sort of couple.)

We settle in quickly, Snow throwing himself onto the bed and sprawling out.

I stand back to watch by the bathroom door, leaning against the wall and grinning as he exhales and turns over. “Let’s run away everyday.”

“That solves absolutely nothing.”

He shrugs. “Nothing’s working, so what’s the point on this trying-thing? It’s just a bust. We’ve got nothing to do  _ but _ run.”

I sit by his head, hesitating before carding my fingers through his hair. He takes it, humming pridefully as I comb through it. “Except…”

“Except what?”

“The Mage.”

He sits up abruptly, frowning. “No. Not this again.”

I groan back, reaching for his hand. He lets me take it, but doesn’t react. Still, I squeeze it in hopes for something--anything out of him.

“Listen. If not  _ any _ other day, listen to me now.”

He turns, frown twitching as I continue.

“Go to him tomorrow, and ask him his  _ full _ plan. Trust me on this. I know what this sounds like, but I know you know something’s wrong. You have to. You--”

“How do I know to trust you?”

I frown, snorting. “Really? I let you kill me and you think I’m  _ plotting _ again? Grow up, Snow.”

He pouts a bit, working it through (I can  _ smell _ the cogs turning in his head) before he nods, swallowing hard. “Show me why.”

I’m about to throw a yelling fit before it dawns of me as to what he’s asking for. He’s asking for a kiss.

A simple, telltale kiss.

And I give it to him. A sweet, tender, rest of my lips against his, hand settling over his heart and feeling the rhythmic pump below me.

When he pulls back, I force myself to speak. To share why.

“I’m ready to keep dying until you do trust me,” I whisper, feeling his forehead settle onto mine. I force myself to keep my eyes shut, throat tight and nerves unsteady. I might burst if I could see his face now, melting into an expression that I’m not quite prepared to deal with.

We pull back after he seems it fits, his breath coming out in a sigh as he tugs my sleeve. “‘M hungry.”

I snort, allowing myself to see again before grabbing my wallet and handing him my card. I settle back, shrugging. “Order whatever. Take out a whole bloody restaurant--who cares. It won’t matter tomorrow.”

“Hmm, we might as well try cocaine, with that attitude.”

“Don’t tempt me. I have an addictive personality.”

He looks at me as I’m halfheartedly sneering, then slipping it into a smile as my eyes fall shut.

He orders something or other for delivery before falling into bed beside me.

We settle, hands meeting in the middle between our bodies as we rest properly for the first time in too long.

I drift off to a nap, and he wakes me when the food arrives.

I shake my head, then he pushes me more. “You’ve got to be hungry.”

I turn my face. Of course I am. I always am. But my fangs pop and that’s not on my list of “Things I definitely want to think about in this context, especially as everything going to shit”. But he keeps insisting, offering me a fork and wanting so badly to share  _ his _ food (and the chicken masala looks  _ divine _ ), so take the fork, covering my mouth as I scarf down a bite.

He grins, nose scrunching. “There. Not too bad.”

I shrug, chewing cautiously as he keeps trying to offer. “‘M fine,” I mumble.

Of course, he notices, scooting closer. “What are you--”

“Nothing.” It sounds like “Noffing”.

He reaches for my hand, and I’m such a weak bastard that I let him take it, dragging it away for the full view of my fangs out on display.

I frown, twitching slightly as he grins.

“Shit, you shouldn’t hide them. They’re--”

“Ugly. An eyesore. And a dead-bloody give away.”

He shrugs. “And cool. They’re cool.”

“Fuck off, Snow.”

He offers me a fork, and I snatch it over, aggressively jabbing into the tin and taking a few mouthfuls down with quick bites.

I excuse myself to change not long after, getting into comfortable clothing and giving up on the concept of us leaving and doing anything of use beyond sitting here and  _ chatting _ (I suppose).

It starts off quiet, then takes off when he asks a question I’ve been avoiding for days.

“What if this is it? What if we die in one of these loops?”

When I turn my head, he’s already staring at me, picking at his last piece of garlic naan as I process it over and over.

Of course, I know the answer in my head. It’s gnawed at me for as long as we’ve been stuck in this. It’s my chosen poison of self-depreciation. The worst thing I could do to myself, and that is think about life and how quickly it could be over.

As I look over him, something dawns on me in the full effect. Something I’ve known, but simultaneously something I’ve avoided. That this isn’t some weird fever dream.

That once I die--once Snow and I either let something happen, or this goes awry and I let him properly off me in some possible way, then it’s over. I’ve got no morning to wake up to. No restart of the day. I’ve got inky nothingness, and a hope that my family lives through it.

He blinks at me, eyes full of both nothing and everything, and it aches inside of me. It hurts knowing how very real this is--how very real  _ he _ is. How very real his kisses have been, and how very real his touch feels. How all of this is the culmination of years of longing and wistful thinking come to fruition, and so soon could it be ripped from me.

But, nevertheless, I got to have it. Even the briefest moments of it.

“At least then I get to die knowing I got to be by your side for once,” I whisper, squeezing his hand. “In every way that I’ve ever wanted to.”

He thinks over it, and I watch his throat bob and settle, words working into worried thoughts and phrases, finally bubbling over into something so amazingly dumb that I’m smiling at his words.

“Wait, so you’ve liked me for  _ how _ long?”

I’m chuckling when I answer.

“Years, Snow. Years.”

“ _ Shit _ .” He grins, starting to laugh along. “Shit. I should’ve gotten my act together years ago then, huh?”

“Equal opportunity hatred. It was a plan for you to not figure out.”

“So you  _ were _ plotting?”

“That’s what you get from that?”

“Partially. I heard the rest, but--”

I shut him up with a kiss, drawing him close and pressing my lips around his face.

We stay in bed, half-snogging, half talking about pointless shit. It’s hours of this, until we’re too tired to snog and talk anymore, then we sit, pressed up to one another in willful silence until the night starts sinking over. Snow orders more food. I eat a bit, he eats a ton, and we rest.

Fully clothed (all jokes aside, I don’t know what I’d even  _ do _ if I was even ready to get in Snow’s trousers). Comfortable. In each other’s arms. We rest, snuggled up and falling asleep knowing that this could either be one of our last days of peace, or one of many more to come.

\--

**SIMON**

Baz is too far away when we wake up.

Our bedroom’s worth of distance is enough to make me miss him--miss his hands on mine, miss his lips against me.

I throw my sheets off and snuggle up to him under his, hearing him mumble something while half asleep, throwing an arm over my body as a signal of giving up. I grin, kissing his jaw before tucking my face into his shoulder.

He smells like home.

I sigh into him, melting against his touch and trying to let the rest of the world around us disappear into fragments of our collective fever dream imagination.

But, instead, it stays.

The worst possible reality draws closer, making me push myself up and away after minutes of silence. “I’ll do it,” I whisper.

He blinks, letting me continue without further questioning.

“I’ll go to The Mage. I’ll see what he wants, or really, what he’s actually doing.”

I feel his hand rest and curve around my wrist, gaze darting down and onto the veins running up my arm. I wonder, briefly, how often he thinks of my blood.

When he faces me, it dawns on me that I don’t actually care. I just care that he’d never hurt me regardless.

“I should stay here,” he says, somewhat staying steady. I know this wears a lot on him. It wears a lot on both of us. “Or at least go through classes. Something.”

“Or hide in the Catacombs,” I suggest, pushing his hair from his face. His eyes fall shut, and I brush my knuckles against his cheek.

He nods, shoulders losing tension. “Go. I’ll see you tomorrow, at the very latest.”

I laugh dryly, standing and scanning the room. It’ll always be here tomorrow. “Yeah, guess you’re right.”

“I’m always right.”

“Mostly right.”

“Mmm, always, from what I recall--”

I kiss him briefly to shut him up, savoring his moment of silence before grabbing clothes and changing in the en suite. 

He’s sitting up when I’m getting out, but barely moving (which, I suppose, is understood, given our current situation--it is a bit of a morose moment to blankly stare off and hope your don’t die another brutal death today).

I leave him with a peck to his cheek and a nod of my head, walking down and out past the rest of campus.

Past the bit of wood, and right up to the semi-souped up doors of The Mage’s garage.

Stepping in, I’m automatically welcomed by the familiar sight unfurled in front of me. Organization. Hidden papers, hidden plans, and a mostly empty room.

Even The Mage is in nearly the same position I’d found him last time, except this time, I don’t cut past the friendly suspicion. This time, I clear my throat, jaw setting as I sweep around the room.

I need answers.

“Looks like we’re gearing up for war, sir,” I say, voice cleaner and deeper cutting than I can typically manage, going through without a single stutter.

He lifts his head, an unreadable face shadowed under the harsh bright lights wired into the old wooden frame. “Simon. I didn’t expect you this morning.”

I shrug, fending innocence. “Thought I’d visit. Just… seems strange in here. Where is everyone?”

The soldier beside him (because that’s what they are-- _ soldiers _ ) studies him carefully, waiting for The Mage to turn his head and wave dismissively before allowing me to approach.

“Shouldn’t you be in classes?”

“It’s practically just review, sir. Nothing’s happening that’ll be of importance, especially if there’s a mission.”

I feel incredibly rigid, watching him try to unpack and repack my intentions before me without sharing any words regarding it. He, rather, stays silent, studying my every move.

He relents, after a moment, exhaling and settling his hands onto the table. “It’s not the typical mission. You’ll be expected to say nothing about it--not even to your  _ pals _ Penelope and Wellbelove’s daughter.”

I don’t have the effort left to even correct him about Agatha, nodding along with it.

His fingers drum, then cut, hands laying flat over the surface as he stares at me. “We’re pulling a new move against the Families, Simon. One that should scare them enough to give us breathing room without too much clean up afterwards.”

With that, I feel sick. Still, I nod anyway, keeping steadily upright as he takes it as a sign to continue.

“It’s quite simple, really. We’re simply bringing the Families to Watford with a bit of a forced effort. Remind them that even with money, they’re not above us. Then we send them back after a show--simple as that.”

I’m definitely going to be sick. All over The Mage’s bloody fucking floor.

That’s why there’s children. Babies. Families gathered--it’s like herding animals. Nothing likes being contained. Nothing likes being scared. The fight begins because they’re terrified, and there’s no knowing it’s a show of bloody power.

They think they’re marching to a war ground.

And they’re there in  _ defense. _

I reach out and grab the first thing closest to me (luckily, the back of a chair) as I force myself numb.

This is it. The breaking of The Mage.

Baz was right. Baz was fucking right. I could’ve never faced it; not without the villainous face of a man ready to steal families from homes and practically cattle car them here.

It takes everything in me to meet The Mage’s eyes again, unsteadily nodding before exhaling. “That’ll be quite the difficult task, sir,” I say, hopefully convincing.

He’s blank as he squints, waiting for anything else from me before deciding to speak again. “Yes, well. With your aid, it’ll definitely be a deterrent for them. You’re the answer, Simon. The one they fear the most; they  _ know _ you can end them.”

The concept of killing children is too much. I stumble, shake it off, then sit.

I get a suspicious glance, but I swallow and mumble “Sorry, long night” before continuing. “You’re quite right, sir.”

What if I go off right now, right here? Would Baz be okay? Would  _ I _ be okay? Would the day still reset without us both being in the proximity of one another?

Merlin, I wish I knew the logistics of this bloody time-thing.

“Good. Glad we’re in agreement.” He raises his brows at me. “They should be arriving by late afternoon, and I want you rested for the event. Go rest--be back by your lunchtime, and no later.”

I nod automatically, standing and giving him a proper bow-nod before going to walk off.

I let my body lead me to the Catacombs, breathing in the dust and decay of the winding corridors as I stand at the entrance, feeling the door fall shut behind me.

“Baz!” I call out. Nothing.

Then, I shove a little magic into it.

“ ** _Baz!_ ** ”

It’s a few moments of silence before I hear far off footsteps, and the soft, distance call back of “Snow?”

I feel myself sag, trying to catch my breath as he draws closer.

The fire in his hand flickers, chest catching along with his gasp as I start to tumble back, sitting with my back to the door.

He sprints the rest of the way, dropping the fire and leaving us in absolute darkness. I shy away at his first touch, then feel him pull as I urgently reach out and drag him in. “You’re right. You fucking bastard, you were right. I hate you. You’re right, you’re fucking--”

“Shh,” he says quietly, and I stop. I don’t have the energy to lose it all. “What do you need?”

To get away to get away to get away to get away to get away--

“Restart,” I manage, taking fistfulls of his blazer in a desperate effort to have him closer. “Kill me, Baz. Please. Reset the day and let it be new. He’ll look for me if we don’t,  _ please _ .”

“I… I can’t--”

“For me,” I plead, hands letting go before finding and cupping his jaw. “Please, do this for me. We need to leave, I need to leave.”

I hear his breath, slightly ragged. Slightly unhinged. “Simon, what do you want me to--”

“Anything,” I whisper. “Anything at all. Bite me. You can do it. I don’t mind--it’ll be fast enough, won’t it? How much venom does it take to kill someone?”

He goes stiff. “I don’t know.” His voice is icy. Makes me retreat.

“I didn’t… I’m not… I don’t think you’ve…”

“Don’t make me hurt you, Simon.”

I gulp, then kiss him, yanking back in a jolt before groaning. “Fuck,  _ please _ ? You wanted this before. I  _ need _ this. I need to escape,  _ please _ .”

He hesitates, breath against my cheek as he exhales. “I’m scared. How am I going to get myself if you’re dead? I’m not waiting with you--” he gets choked up, but I can fill in the rest.

He’s not waiting with my dead body until midnight.

Too morbid. Too dark, even for him.

I nod and reach for my hip, summoning my sword and blowing out in a slow, steady stream before handing it to him. “I trust you,” I murmur. “Just… make it quick.”

He’s basically panting now, pushing himself off me before settling onto the ground beside me. I only hear the scraping of floor and dust, all sight still completely gone.

It makes no difference, but I close my eyes, preparing myself for it.

At last, I grab his hand, giving it a reassuring squeeze before I tell him to do it.

His voice is soft when he counts down, barely a whisper as I hear him go.

“Three… two… one.”

\--

**BAZ**

I want to be mad at him for this.

I want to be angry, like he gets. Kick bedposts and rage off at him, but rather, I’m oddly relieved when I see morning light again, feeling the pain in my chest where I punctured his sword through my own skin.

Modern day Romeo and Juliet, I suppose. Except we’re both not dying properly, like they were.

I roll over and stare at him through the morning light, seeing through the light speckling of dust across the air where the sun’s the strongest. He’s awake, but unmoving, with his hands folded over his chest and face pointed to the ceiling. He’s silent. I’d say in thought, but I don’t know how much he really thinks, but rather spaces out and tries to connect.

I believe this is my time to stand and join him, reliving the conversation we’d just had.

He lets me slip in, arm draping around my shoulders as we tightly press up side-by-side and lay in silence. I don’t quite know if there’s anything left for us to say, especially since he knows about The Mage now…

Except, of course, we could discuss information.

“What did you find out?” I whisper. I can’t speak. If I speak too loud, I’ll lose it.

“He’s rounding up The Families for a public show.” He sounds blank. “Trying to embarrass them, but he isn’t thinking it through. He’s scaring them, and they’re… they’re…”

I reach for his hand, and he lets me take it, weaving our fingers together. His is warm and softer than mine, too. And I quite like the way our bodies weave so securely together that it feels like my skin was fit to meet his.

I close my eyes, running over our options.

“Is it just The Families? Nobody else?”

He shakes his head. “It’s just The Families. Checks out with what we’ve seen,”

Right. Who do we have as an ally left.

“What’s the Bunce family’s opinion on The Mage?”

“Wha--why are you asking this  _ now _ ?”

“There’s a method to my madness, Snow, just tell me. What’s their stance?”

He hesitates, frowning slightly before answering “I… mean they don’t  _ love _ him. Of course there’s Penny’s older brother P--”

“I don’t need intricacies, I just need to know if they can help us.”

He nods a little, head turning to face me. When I turn to meet him, our noses touch, and his hair falls onto my forehead as well as his. 

“Good. Then we’re going there.”

“What?”

I sigh. “We’re grabbing Bunce and running to her house. We can regroup and strategize there.”

He frowns a bit, shifting through his discomfort before nodding. “I… yeah. Sure. Yeah.”

I give him a nod before I sit up abruptly and head to the bathroom, getting myself ready for the day. He trails after, lagging a minute or two.

Physically, he looks the same as the first day we did this. Barely a scratch in difference on him. Yet, he carries himself with the emotional weight left behind by the events of this disaster. Heavy eyed and sagging shoulders. He carries his traumas like a knapsack.

I try not to show mine, but it’s getting there. The inevitable tipping point.

I don’t know how much longer we can take this, after all.

We dress in silence, slipping down to the grounds and making our way to the dining hall. I wait outside and wait, checking to see every person leaving in hopes that it’s Snow and Bunce. It does take them a few minutes, but Bunce bursts out first, looking around for me before squinting curiously and crossing her arms.

“There’s a lot to ask here, huh?”

I half-smile in return, arms uncrossing and recrossing over my chest. “Quite a bit to say, yes. But that’s something better left for the ride. Care to take a trip?”

“I fucking guess,” she huffs, pushing past me and stomping towards the entrance.

Simon jogs in front, taking the lead as we tag along behind. She starts her questioning, as I’d expected.

“So what  _ exactly _ is happening?”

“Depends. What did Snow illustrate for you?”

“He pretty much said ‘Baz and I are in a weird time thing, and you won’t believe what’s happening, so just come with me and see’.”

“And..?”

“Well, of course I wanted details, so I asked, and he kept just saying he’d tell me on the road.”

I nod, watching him ahead of us doing his half-stomp, half-sway, leading us right out of the unguarded gates. It makes me smile, but only for myself.

Bunce catches it, giving me an odd look before I shrug, which makes her more confused.

“Okay,” she starts. “You’re going to have to tell me what ‘weird time thing’ actually means, because all that’s coming to mind is that Rocky Horror song, and I’m pretty sure Simon isn’t Rocky, although the airhead part fits.”

Hm. Snow in a gold speedo. “We seem to be caught in an ongoing reset of time. Specifically for today, a la Groundhog day. We’re well over a week in at this point.”

“Okay… any reason? A spell?”

“No. That’s the key issue here; there’s nothing we can properly trace it to, except that we know for a fact that this afternoon, The Mage is rounding up The Families and bringing them to campus for some fucked up demonstration of how much of a dick he can be. Except, every day, it goes bad and it begins the battle between The Families and The Mage.”

“ _ That _ battle happens today?”

I nod.

“Well, what happened the first day?”

I stare ahead, and realise that Snow either can’t hear us (he’s a little distance ahead, probably trying to keep watch), or he’s choosing not to answer. Both, of which, leave me in the less-than-perfect situation of explaining this one. “He killed me.”

She’s staring at me in half-confusion, half-shock and holding that even when I turn my head away. “So, he… you…”

“It’s quite a long story. A week and a half worth of a story. We’ve gone over the killing part a few times, with the general consensus being that he’s sorry.”

“And… you…”

Might as well say this. It won’t be something she’ll recall tomorrow. “And I love him,” I say, quiet enough that even if he was listening before, he can’t hear now. “I always have. I didn’t fight him away on that first day. I couldn’t fight him away on that first day.”

She looks between us, silent in thought for a good minute before turning back. Her only verbal reaction is simply “Does he know?”

It’s such a strange thought to dwell on.  _ Does he know _ ? He knows I care, yes. He knows I don’t want to hurt him. He knows I was ready to die, and he knows enough to know how much I care for him. But does he know I love him?

I hope so, at this point.

“Not verbally.” We follow him around the bend of the old, worn-in country road, keeping watch of his careful surveying. “But he knows I have feelings for him.”

“Crowley, did he, you know… Knife you again?”

I snort. “No. He kissed me.”

She blinks at that, taking her moment to process before nodding thoughtfully. “Why am I not entirely surprised?”

“Hm. Eight years of obsessing?”

“Most likely.”

We exchange a knowing smile, continuing to follow him onwards.

Bunce asks me to explain the days a bit more in detail as we take the walk into town (suppose Snow forgot we could call for a ride, or he just felt the need to burn off steam), falling in step as I explain our days in a bit more detail. She seems jarred by our library day, confessing she’s upset that she doesn’t remember it (I tell her it isn’t much good to recall). I’m wrapping up our day before as we step into the station, following Snow inside.

I pay for tickets, finding the platform and sitting collectively. Bunce takes it as an opportunity to interrogate Snow, allowing me to sit on the other side of him as he gets dealt her vaguely-motherlike ramblings. He holds my hand, to my internalized delight, and doesn’t let go until the train arrives.

We get silent there, settling into seats and watching Watford turn into London. We have to do a quick transfer line in the city before we get to the right part of the city, walking the few blocks it takes to get there.

Bunce calls her mum once we get to the street, telling her to start the kettle, because it’ll be a long talk.

She greets us at the door, thankfully, and invites us in, looking mostly bewildered, but also incredibly confused (Bunce has to explain that I’m here on my own terms, which I nod a bit enthusiastically in agreeance to).

The house is a bit messier than expected, not dirty in the term of rot, but rather strewn about in the means of having  _ stuff _ . So much  _ stuff _ . Banned, unexpected  _ stuff _ . A playground for the mind’s worth of  _ stuff _ .

We’re herded into the kitchen, mugs of tea shoved into our hands with a plate of biscuits pushed towards us. “What in the name of all that is  _ magickal _ has happened to requite  _ this _ ?” Her mother asks, turning to Bunce first, who simply gestures towards us.

First, Simon blurts out “Time loop”. Which prompts a confused look from Mrs. Bunce, and a sigh from me.

“We’re stuck in a repeating day. Today. Snow and I are reliving today with no end.”

“What  _ spell _ did you cast?”

“That’s the kicker,” Snow interjects. “There is none. Absolutely nothing said.”

Mrs. Bunce stops, then narrows her eyes. “Care to explain what happened your first rotation of today?”

And thus starts Snow’s whole display. He starts going on about the mundanity of the morning and afternoon, then start explaining the battle, and then, with a guilty glance over, ends it with detailing him stabbing me, then going off.

Then he explains The Mage’s plan and what he found from that.

And that’s that. The first day of too many to pass, and fearfully more to come (with some important additives).

There’s silence, then a thoughtful, soft “Hmph”. Our heads shoot up to Mrs. Bunce staring hard into her drink, nodding slowly to herself before looking back to Snow.

“Was there anything odd about you going off?”

“I… sort of?”

“How?”

He shrugs, looking at his hands before reaching for the biscuits. “Felt stronger, I guess. It was overwhelming--like it was bursting at the seams, then spilling out, rather than exploding in a flashbang.”

She raises a brow, and it hits me, too, after a minute.

Great Methusda…

Bunce looks equally shocked, leaving us to exchange the same knowing look before Snow, looking around cluelessly, goes “What is it? What happened?”

Mrs. Bunce settles her mug down, hands resting against the countertop as she starts. “Simon, it’s entirely possible that you going off is what set time on this cycle.”

“I…”

She cuts him off. “What were you thinking when you went off? What’s the last thought in your head.”

He sits there in silence, leaving us waiting on the edge of our seats before he finds it. “I’d thought ‘Merlin, I wish I never did this. I wish this never happened’.”

We all exchange the look again, this time, with a lagged wide-eyed stare from Snow to make it all the more right.

“Fuck,” he hisses, nose scrunching. “Shit. Right. Of course, it was my fault.”

I swallow, looking at him across the table with a half-shrug as Bunce goes to comfort him.

“It’s not your fault, Simon. How were you supposed to know that’d do this?”

He shrugs and keeps looking anywhere  _ but _ me. “I don’t know. I--fuck. Shit. I’m… how do we  _ fix _ this?”

Mrs. Bunce shrugs, exhaling through her nose. “Make it never happen.”

“What?” Snow’s head whips towards her as she nods thoughtfully.

“It definitely could work. Reshaping the events of the day to completely forgo the battle could be, in the liberties taken from your internalized spellwork, making sure it ‘never happened’.”

He gulps. “How’re we supposed to do that.”

“I have a plan.”

Everyone turns to me, going silent. Suddenly, I have an audience.

“We’ll need a few things, namely a connection to The Coven and for Snow to suddenly develop a godlike knack for manipulation.”

“Cut to the chase--you don’t need to monologue,” Bunce yawns, definitely trying to overlook my build up (who would I even be without a dramatic build up?)

I stick my nose up, pouting. “Fine. Simply put, I phone my family in the morning to properly warn them, and tell them when to come to the school. I also contact any other students from The Families, warn them of the plan. As for Snow, he’ll need to convince The Mage to pull in his troops and round up the  _ students _ of The Families. Thus, less effort, same impact of fear. The Mage does so, then the favor tip called into the Coven arrives, catches The Mage in the act, and hopefully justice takes action. Or a glock. Whichever one hits him sooner.”

“Do you have a glock?”

“I can find a glock.”

Snow seems a bit shell shocked by all of it, but he nods regardless, letting us start to plan when, how, and what exactly we’re doing. He slips out of his seat in the midst of our conversation, coming to stand beside me and rest his head onto my shoulder. Mindlessly, I wrap my arm around his waist, letting the odd look from Mrs. Bunce and the quick  _ “Don’t ask” _ look from Bunce pass us by as we discuss.

It takes up the better half of the afternoon strategizing. By evening, we decide we’ve figured as much as we can, and decide to retire to eat and rest. The Bunces set up their pull out sofa for us, after a brief exchange of “Will you need another… you know what? Nevermind. Is this fine?” (And yes, we agreed it is fine).

Mrs. Bunce goes off to her own thing, leaving Bunce, Snow, and I to discuss.

We order in, sitting around and eating out of take-out containers with a muted telly beside us as Penny asks us to walk her through everything again, this time in finer detail. Snow has a revelation moment, realizing he might want to try messing with the natural order of time again with his magic, which results in a loud, collective “ _ No! _ ”.

By the end of the evening, Bunce leaves us be, letting us retire silently on the mattress.

He faces me, hands finding mine as he curls up (he undressed to his boxers and borrowed a tee, pulling the blanket up for decency, at least). (I kept to the pajamas I stuffed into my bookbag).

It’s a few minutes of silence, the only light in the room from the outside street lamps and the harsh, ever changing screen of the telly program. Then, he breaks it through, clearing his throat before mumbling “You know, we could die tomorrow. If we get killed after we fix it, that could be it.”

“Yes, well, that’s been the ongoing threat, hasn’t it?”

“I mean yeah, but it’s different now. It’s serious now.”

“I’ve been serious the whole time--”

“Not my point.”

“Then what is?”

He hesitates, then shrugs.

“ _ What is it, Snow? _ ”

He scrunches his nose a bit before shrugging again, looking at our hands. “Dunno. Wasn’t expecting to die a virgin.”

I’m too shocked to respond, so he just takes that as a sign to nervously talk.

“I mean, I don’t know if you are, but  _ I _ am, and fuck it, if we’re gonna maybe  _ die _ in less than a day, I wouldn’t be  _ opposed _ to  _ maybe _ \--” he gestures between us, and I snort, blinking at him and leaving him blushing.

I kiss his cheek, enjoying the stammering he’s left in.

“As much as, in almost any other situation I would hop at the opportunity to, I can’t think of an absolutely less sexy place to lose my virginity for the sake of a last-minute blintz than the Bunce residence’s living room pull out couch.”

“Oh.” Pause. “Fair, yeah.” Longer pause. “Wait, so you  _ do _ \--”

“Snow, there’s a lot to unpack about how much I’ve wanted to jump your bones and for approximately how long, but let’s leave this at the fact that it’s been a  _ while _ , and I  _ really _ want to, but we should make sure we’re not dying first.”

He nods. “Okay, yeah.” With that, he pushes himself closer, resting his head against my chest before pausing. “So if we do survive--”

“Oh, we’re fucking.”

“Okay yeah nice. Cool.”

He kisses my chest, properly relaxing once my hand works into his hair, brushing through strands slowly.

He’s almost asleep when I find it in me to say it.

It comes out soft at first. Sweet. Like a tune.

“I love you.”

He lifts his head, blinking blearily as I choke on it. Fuck. “I love you,” I say again, trying to force my voice to stop from cracking. “Shit. I needed to say it before tomorrow. Don’t feel obligated to say anything back, but--”

“I don’t know yet,” he says quietly, before quickly following it with “but I might love you too. Just haven’t thought about it.”

I find myself chuckling, and he joins along, laughing away our sorrows to a dumb, half-hearted spitting of a laugh.

“Crowley,” I manage out, “I’m a lucky fucking bastard, did you know? Thought I’d die without this.”

“Don’t think I wanted you to die without this either,” he laughs, morphing to an almost cry, then shifting to definitely crying. It’s soft, and sounds similar to an exhausted sob, everything hitting him quite at once as we tug one another closer, sinking into the sheets and blankets. They form a nest for the pain, a nest for the release of it. A place for us to sit and let go, making sure we’re ready for what comes.

He kisses me again before he yawns, holding onto my face and not letting go.

Not even as we drift off to sleep.

\--

**SIMON**

When we open our eyes across the room from one another, we don’t waste time with a morning snog and cuddle.

We get up and dress, taking a brief pause before leaving to exchange kisses and nervous “Good luck”s to one another, parting ways and hoping.

We’ve got nothing but hope (and a plan--one that I struggled to add onto, even if I could).

I head toward the garage, welcomed by the unwelcoming stiff air accompanying the planning.

The Mage spots me, nodding towards me and waving me over.

It feels like a script now. Something Penny and I went over a few times while Baz showered and changed,

The Mage tells me his plan, and I nod, brows drawing tight before I open my mouth. “May I interject, sir?”

He seems questionable, but lets me go on anyway, waving a hand as I speak.

“Well, it’ll be a bit difficult to get  _ all _ The Families here on our efforts, so why don’t we just lure them in.”

He raises a brow. “And how do you suggest we do that?” Sounds properly enthralled. I hope I’ve got him.

“We grab the kids. All The Families have at least relatives here that we could use. We could just round up the kids  _ here _ at Watford, and tell them we have them held until they come for negotiations. They aren’t harmed, of course, but kept in a locked place--probably the chapel.

“Families come, and we have the upper hand. They’ve just got to listen if they want their family let go.”

One of The Mage’s hands rise, rubbing over his beard as I speak, adding some hand gestures for the extra flair before raising my brows and seeming all smug.

To my fucking amazement, it works.

“Interesting.” He takes out his mobile. “Clever, Simon. Good call. Didn’t think of the luring concept as viable until now. Well done.” He goes off typing, walking to the other side of the room as I exhale, being left sitting at his war table with nothing but a hope that everything’s going smoothly for Baz.

The Mage returns after a bit, giving orders to the few of his men in the space before nodding to me. “And you, my dear boy, will accompany me for the rest of the day.”

Lovely.

“Yessir,” I say, standing and starting to march along for hopefully what will be the last time.

We go to The White Chapel, watching his men clear out a space and hearing the faint shocks and gripes of students being shoved in. There’s some that give me a look that seems like a mix of disgust and boredom (a look I’m  _ very _ familiar with), while others don’t look my way at all. 

The gloomy sunlight shines through the glass, leaving room in a dulled hue from the stained colouring.

It mostly glows red. It feels proper.

It feels angry. I feel angry. I  _ should _ be angry.

But somehow, I’m contained. Channeled into one thought and one thought only: to get through this bloody day without a war.

We wait, Standing in the corner silently while receiving bitter glares. I feel my heart sink as Baz steps in, face drawn in a sneer as he’s shoved into the room at the hands of a particularly rough one of the men. I have to remind myself it’s all part of the plan, but bloody hell does it ache to watch him pushed around ( _ him _ \--can you imagine?).

The day starts ticking down. The sun disappears further behind the clouds, dipping the room to a hazy greyish orange.

I start itching for an answer. Begging, mentally, for the release of doors, of  _ somebody _ . I’m choking on the hope that the Coven members themselves will find us first.

It takes a while, but the wave of those in The Families hit first. Starting to try to see in, shouts of frustration against guards, commentary on the atrocious nature of holding children without viable reasoning. Distractions.

Distractions distractions distractions.

I look at The Mage, and he seems smug.

I start to count the minutes he’s got this under his grip.

One… two… three…

I hear louder arguing.

Eight… nine… ten…

“ _ He’s just a boy! He’s not even 12!” _

Nineteen… twenty… twenty one…

The crash of the heavy double doors jolts everyone in the room, including The Mage, and I’ve never once been more relieved in my life to see Dr. Wellbelove in his traditional Coven cloak (they never explain why, but they’re embroidered with gold--like a monk’s cloak, but glitzy).

“What’s the meaning of this?” A voice behind him booms, stepping into the space. I recognize the bloke, but only vaguely. I’ve seen him at Christmas parties, holiday meet ups, etc. He’s one of the elder members.

The Mage stammers beside me, pulling his face into a tight snivel as he stumbles over his words. “Well I--this is under my--have you no  _ respect _ for how I--”

The crowd of onlookers grow to gawk at the scene before the flood of members barrel in, overwhelming the crowd. I try to move, getting dizzy by the sudden rush, and only getting stabilized my a new hand reaching out and grabbing me. I’m yanked out along with the children, letting The Mage lose sight of me within the crowd.

I know the hand on mine. Cold. Long and bony.

A hand I’m beyond happy to hold onto, weaving through the crowds and into the late-evening air outside. 

I gasp out for it, trying to shake my dizziness as Baz’s hand rests on my back, rubbing up and down and getting lost in his ramblings of how well I did, and how this,  _ this _ should work.

I try to look up at him, but I stumble, gasping again.

I’m falling, falling, until it goes dark, and stays so briefly.

It happens so fast that I wake up not far from the chapel--resting across a nearby bench, head on Baz’s lap as I come to. He smiles at me, making me think that maybe I  _ did _ die, but then he opens his mouth to speak.

“You’re really going to die on me right after we figured it out? Idiot.”

I smile back, knowing that yes, I’m definitely alive, and this is definitely where I should be (in Baz’s arms).

“What time…”

“It’s not midnight yet,” he says softly. I still hear the loud chattering of a crowd about us, then the shocking flash of a camera not far off sends me flinching and sitting up.

Baz moves to calm me. “It’s fine--they’re paper. News. All that. Just photographing the scene--”

“Is he..?”

“Gone? Yes. Far gone,” Baz assures.

“Are they… have they…”

“For general human rights violations, yes. But word has it they have more to investigate beyond that. Tempering with dark, ancient runes. Plenty of shit.”

I nod, moving to hold my head as I exhale. “Shit…”

He laughs dryly beside me, hand finding my knee and squeezing. “We should find somewhere away from noise.”

I nod quickly. “Penny… Penny…”

“She came to check, then went to the Weeping Tower’s common room to watch the reports.”

I nod. “There, then,” I mumble, offering my hands and forcing him to haul me up and help me to the room (on the damned third floor, of course). There’s a considerable amount of students accumulated throughout, all turning to look when I’m hauled in half draped across Baz’s shoulder. But, with a sharp glare from him, the room turns to mind other business (and not mind his, apparently).

Penny, of course, shoots up, running over to help me. “Crowley fucking Almighty, Simon,” she hisses. “This is--”

“Exactly what I should’ve seen coming,” I mumble, exhaustedly waving my hand. “Yeah yeah. Can you just lay me on the couch? It’s been a long fucking week or two.”

She nods, helping drag me over as I gracelessly flop back and wait for Baz to join me.

She sits on the other side, keeping a fair distance (well, as opposed to Baz, who’s significantly closer than anyone would expect him to be). It’s silent for a bit.

The telly’s rolling. A streaming service only available to Mages (there’s actually a bloody password for it, but it’s passw0rd, so technically Normals can watch it too, if they’re clever). (Some of them have been clever, but it usually ends up with them thinking it’s just some weird cult with special effects.) The roll through is enough to make me feel sick ( _ The Mage The Mage The Mage The Mage _ ), and the images showing over the screen are of Watford, some from the chapel, and some interviewing individuals involved or affected.

I watch the scroll of film below, Mages Men piling into vans to be taken away for trials. Vividly surreal, yet shockingly real footage of people I’ve known, people I used to trust, being told to stay still, and allow their arms be magically tied together before being loaded into cars.

I feel like I’m in a dream. A shitty, obscure dream, showing me my life without me knowing it’s not fully mine to have.

But I have Baz on one side, and Penny on the other.

I stop looking at the screen, and try to focus on them. I shake myself twice, then hope. Close my eyes briefly, and hope.

Open them. Watch the screen. Watch the scroll. What the screen. Watch the--

The clock shows midnight, and I sit upright, holding my breath as the seconds tick on. Baz’s hand flies to mine, holding it tightly as we wait, and wait, and…

A minute after midnight.

We look at each other, and I swear, I’ve never burst into tears faster.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm so sorry you had to read them dying so many times, but like. hey, tags.
> 
> i really hope everyone enjoyed this. if not, you can yell at me on tumblr and i'll happy take criticism for the pain i've put you through


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